i£x  ICthrts 


SEYMOUR  DURST 


"When  you  leave,  please  leave  this  hook 

Because  it  has  heen  said 
" Sver'thing  comes  t'  him  who  waits 

Except  a  loaned  book." 


OLD   YORK    LIBRARY  —  OLD    YORK  FOUNDATION 


Avery  Architfxtural  and  Fine  Arts  Library 
Gift  of  Seymour  B.  Durst  Old  York  Library 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Archive 
in  2013 


http://archive.org/details/newyorkersotherpOOmatli 


THE  NEW  YORKERS 
AND  OTHER  PEOPLE 


y^/ a 


THE  NEW  YORKERS 
AND  OTHER  PEOPLE 


BY 

FRANCES  AYMAR  MATHEWS 

AUTHOR  OF  "a  MARRIED  MAN,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

GODFREY  A.  S.  WIENERS 

662  Sixth  Avenue 
1900 


Ps 


Copyright,  1899,  by 
GODFREY  A.  S.  WIENERS 

A/!  rights  reserved 


TROW  OlHECTOHY 
MINTINQ  ANO  BOOKtlNOINO  COMPANY 
NfW  YORK 


THIS  LITTLE  BOOK 
IS  GRATEFULLY  AND  LOVINGLY 
INSCRIBED  TO  AN  OLD   "NEW  YORKER** 
MARIA  T.  MOORE 
ONE   OF   THE    NOBLEST    AND    SWEETEST  OF 
WOMEN,  ONE  OF  THE  LOYALEST  AND 
BEST  OF  FRIENDS 

F.  A.  M. 

A'^tf  Vori 
Aug^ist  the  t-wtntyjl/th,  iSgg 


t 


AUTHOR'S  PREFATORY  NOTE 


Appreciative  acknowledgments  are  gratefully 
tendered  to  James  Gordon  Bennett,  Esq.,  and 
The  New  York  Herald,  for  permission  to 
reprint  ''The  Empress  of  an  Hour";  to  The 
New  York  Criterion  for  a  like  courtesy  as  to 
*'The  Lost  Year";  and  to  S.  S.  McClure, 
Esq.,  for  the  same  favor  regarding  The  Cat's 
Eye." 

New  York, 
August  the  22d,  1899. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  New  Yorkers,  i 

In  Clinton  Place,  77 

The  Foreigner,  179 

Two  OF  A  Kind  and  the  Joker,  .  .231 
The  Empress  of  an  Hour,  .  .  .  .251 
When  the  Tzar  is  Crowned,  .    .  .319 

The  Spirit  Traveller,  353 

The  Lost  Year,  373 

The  Prisoner  of  the  Steen,  .  .  .  389 
The  Cat's  Eye,  417 


THE  NEW  YORKERS 


THE  NEW  YORKERS 


PART  I 

I  WAS  brought  out  at  seventeen,  for  the 
reason  that  my  mother,  an  abnormally  am- 
bitious and  adaptive  woman,  regarding  a 
daughter  as  merely  a  means  to  an  end,  could 
wait  no  longer  for  the  essay  which  should 
test  my  worldly  value.  I  had  had  a  grand- 
father, a  man  of  neither  repute  nor  wealth, 
and  who  therefore  was  never  resurrected 
save  behind  the  backs  of  his  descendants, 
and  by  their  social  enemies.  I  had  had  also 
a  father,  a  man  of  no  repute  and  great 
wealth,  which  latter  sanctified  him  some- 
what, and  permitted  my  mother  the  leisures 
and  pleasures  of  an  almost  unbounded 
aplomb  and  daring. 

Having  been  brought  out,  after  the  proc- 
esses of  two  fashionable  schools  had  done 
their  level  worst  for  me  (and  in  the  way  of 
3 


The  New  Yorkers 


obtaining  knowledge,  principally  undesir- 
able and  unsuspected,  these  establishments, 
judging  at  least  by  their  young  inmates,  can 
be  guaranteed  to  take  the  palm),  I  was 
launched  at  a  very  stunning  tea,  and  chron- 
icled as  a  "  most  interesting  and  accom- 
plished girl." 

Thereupon  I  fell  flat. 

Notwithstanding  all  the  counsels  of  my 
mother,  all  her  lavish  expenditure,  all  her 
forcing  and  admonitions,  I  remained,  at  the 
end  of  my  third  season,  a  social  failure  of 
the  deepest  dye,  and  to  her  a  grievous  morti- 
fication. 

I  neither  rode  recklessly,  flirted  desper- 
ately, carried  clothes  imperially,  turned 
men's  heads,  broke  their  hearts,  sang  di- 
vinely, athletized,  literatized,  antagonized, 
nor  hypnotized.  I  neither  became  a  fiancee 
nor  a  wife.  Earls,  a  prince  or  two,  counts, 
baronets,  and  marquises  passed  before  me, 
or,  rather,  I  passed  before  them,  and  with  all 
my  millions,  they  evinced  no  disposition  to 
appropriate  me  and  mine. 

To  say  that  my  mother  was  chagrined  is 
to  draw  the  picture  of  her  mind  most  mildly. 
4 


and  Other  People 

With  the  inverse  rebound  of  revolutionary 
antecedents,  she  yearned,  in  her  generation, 
for  a  return  to  first  principles,  and  the  yoke 
of  the  title  was  one  to  which  she  longed  to 
harness  her  daughter.  In  point  of  fact,  this 
craze  for  me  to  marry  a  nobleman  was  the 
ruling  passion  of  my  mother's  life,  and  to  it 
she  was  ready  to  sacrifice  not  only  me — 
which  is  a  common  enough  form  of  immola- 
tion— but  herself  as  well. 

It  can  be  imagined,  then,  that  when  at  ris- 
ing twenty,  no  man  of  any  noble,  or  ignoble 
birth  either,  had  even  breathed  of  love,  set- 
ting aside  marriage,  to  me ;  when  I  was  pale, 
inert,  big-eyed,  dull-haired,  nondescript,  and 
handicapped  with  that  awfulest  of  dowers, 
the  pass  in  a  crowd  "  atmosphere ;  with  no 
redemption  visible  anywhere  about  me  to 
mortal  eye  (except  the  millions) — my  moth- 
er— clever,  ingenious,  charming,  world-wise 
— regarded  her  only  offspring  with  horror. 

The  post-Easter  season  was  drawing  to  a 
close.  I  stood  in  Mrs.  Paulding's  drawing- 
room  ;  perhaps  I  was  listening  to  the  music, 
but  more  to  the  voice  of  the  man  who  stood 
near  me.  I  felt  my  mother's  eyes  scanning 
5 


The  New  Yorkers 


me  with  hopeless  discontent  at  the  way  I 
disgraced  a  toilette  fit  for  an  empress.  Pos- 
sibly I  felt  more  keenly  the  glances  of  the 
man ;  his  name  was  Jack  Bingham,  and  he 
was  saying : 

"  Yes,  Miss  Grey,  I  am  going  away  on 
Saturday.  It  is  useless  for  me  to  stop  here 
and  make  a  fool  of  myself  any  longer,  you 
know,  and  if  I  put  the  pond  between  me 
and — temptation  " — he  hesitates  a  bit  as  he 
squares  around  and  looks  full  into  my  stupid 
face — "  I  may  man  it  in  time.  Hard  work, 
they  say,  kills  sometimes ;  but  I  take  it,  it's 
slow  murder !  " 

Crash  comes  the  music,  cutting  Jack  Bing- 
ham's sigh  in  two.  I  don't  look  up.  Why 
should  I  ?  I  am  not  so  idiotic  but  that  I  feel 
the  pulse  in  his  voice  and  know  that  it  is 
beating  for  some  other  woman  who  has  not 
favored  him.  Why  should  I,  a  failure  my- 
self, give  greeting  or  sympathy  to  another's 
misfortunes,  poured  into  my  ears  because  I 
happened  to  be  nearest  at  hand  in  time  of 
stress  ? 

"  Well  ?  "  he  says,  interrogatively,  as  the 
instruments  quiet  down  a  bit  into  a  scherzo. 
6 


and  Other  People 

"  Well,"  I  echo,  shrugging  my  shoulders. 

"  Can't  you  say  a  single  word  to  me?  "  he 
asks,  impatiently. 

What  shall  I  say  ?  "  I  answer,  vaguely 
surmising  that  if  I  were  he,  I  should  win  the 
woman,  or  at  least  die  trying. 

**  Oh,  nothing  but  good-by.  I  sail  on 
Saturday.  After  this  our  paths  are  not  like- 
ly ever  to  cross.  I  am  going  to  plunge  into 
Bohemian  London  for  capital  for  a  new 
novel.    You  "    He  puts  out  his  hand. 

I  put  out  mine ;  he  holds  it  in  his ;  he  is 
gone.  What  went  with  him?  Surely  you 
know. 

I  slipped  back  into  a  little  room  shrouded 
in  portieres  and  palms,  with  dim  lights,  and 
sank  into  a  seat,  my  arms  full  of  emptiness, 
worse  than  the  dullard  sloughs  of  all  my  yes- 
terdays. 

Presently  I  heard  my  mother's  well-modu- 
lated voice.  She  said,  off  yonder  in  the 
lighter  part  of  the  room : 

"  Candidly,  Mr.  McAllister,  what  do  you 
think  of  her?  That  she  is  hopeless,  I  sup- 
pose ?  Her  third  season  over,  and  no  coun- 
try girl  more  irretrievably — oh !  I  don't 
7 


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know !  "  A  flutter  of  a  fan,  a  tiny  snap,  a 
sigh.  Why  should  a  daughter  of  mine  be 
such  a  girl  ?  " 

Christie's  a  nice  girl,"  began  Mr.  Mc- 
Allister, soothingly,  "  a  very  nice  girl,  I'm 
sure." 

Nice !  "  exclaimed  my  mother  with  a 
groan,  and  I  had  hoped  so  much  for  her. 
I  feel  disgraced,  humiliated,  mortified !  " 

Oh,  come  now,  my  dear  Mrs.  Grey,  if 
Miss  Christie  were  my  daughter,  I  assure 
you,  I  should  not  feel  like  this  ;  'pon  my  soul 
I  should  not!  I  was  observing  her  only  a 
moment  since  with  Bingham  at  her  side, 
that  clever,  odd,  writing  fellow,  don't  you 
know?" 

"  Well,  what  did  you  observe  about  her  ? 
Is  there  anything  that  I  can  do  with  her 
that  I  have  not  done?  Pray,  pray  advise 
me." 

"  Well,  you  see,  Miss  Christie's  the  sort  of 
girl  that  needs  the  lash !  " 

The  what?  "  cried  my  mother,  aghast. 
"  Yes,  the  lash,  I  said.    If  by  any  chance 
she  could  love  someone  and  not  be  loved  by 
him  in  return,  don't  you  know,  it  would  re- 
8 


and  Other  People 

veal  her.  As  it  is,  she  is  a  sealed  book  to 
herself  even." 

Oh,"  gasps  my  mother,  irritably.  "  Love 
and  Christie  are  as  far  apart  as  the  poles.  I 
don't  believe  she  could  love.  Tell  me  some- 
thing practical,  tell  me  something  that  I  can 
do  to  further  her,  can't  you  ?  " 

I  suppose  Mr.  McAllister  shrugs  his 
shoulders ;  his  voice  sounds  as  if  he  did  as 
he  says :      Send  her  to  Lady  Heathcote." 
Who  is  Lady  Heathcote  ?  " 

"  She  is  the  principal  and  founder  of  a 
school  of  applied  art,  in  Warwickshire,  Eng- 
land." 

"  '  Applied  art ' !  "  exclaims  my  mother, 
almost  hysterically.  You  would  have  me 
make  a  painter  of  her,  and  she  has  not  sense 
enough  to  rouge  her  cheeks  when  they  are 
too  pale !  " 

Mr.  McAllister  laughs. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Grey,  you  mistake  me  en- 
tirely. I  will  send  you  Lady  Heathcote's 
prospectus  to-morrow  and  you  can  judge  for 
yourself  then ;  only,  one  thing  must  be 
pledged,  the  pamphlet  must  go  no  farther, 
and  its  contents  must  be  regarded  as  sacred." 
9 


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"  Surely,"  assents  my  mother. 
It  was  merely  loaned  me  as  a  social 
curio,  and  as  an  indication  of  the  trend  of  the 
moment.    It  may  be  regarded  as  a  danger- 
ous experiment,  but  you  may  care  to  try  it." 

"  Anything,  anything  to  make  Christie 
like  other  girls,  or  a  little  like  me.  You  see, 
I  have  an  instinct  that  she  has  the  capacity 
somewhere  dormant  in  her,  but  she  lacks  in- 
clination; lacks  the  expressive  power.  I 
know,"  my  mother's  voice  is  firm,  that  no 
child  of  mine  could  be,  and  not  have  such 
and  such  abilities,  such  and  such  ambitions, 
aspirations.  All  they  need  is  to  be  brought 
out." 

"  That  being  the  case,"  says  Mr.  McAllis- 
ter, you  have  everything  to  hope,  I  suspect, 
from  Lady  Heathcote.  Her  mission  is  to 
discover  young  women  and  exploit  them  to 
their  own  and  their  parents'  ultimate  satis- 
faction." 

I  have  apathetically  acquiesced  in  being 
placed  with  Lady  Heathcote  at  Harrowden- 
Burleigh,  a  pretty  seat  not  far  from  such 
well-known  places  as  Warwick  and  Leam- 
ington.   A  big  brick  and  stone  house  of  the 

lO 


and  Other  People 


seventeenth  century,  ivy-grown  and  turret- 
ed,  with  ideal  rooms  and  emerald  lawns,  a 
delicious  garden  where  the  Avon  winds,  and 
altogether  quite  the  atmosphere  to  inspire  a 
liking  for  the  British  side  of  life  and  a  cer- 
tain fair  ease  which  I  have  not  yet  found  so 
well  equalized  anywhere  else.  Such  were 
the  outward  forms  of  this  solecism,  which 
Mr.  McAllister  in  a  happy  moment  had 
christened,  A  School  of  Applied  Art ;  "  as 
for  the  inner  workings  and  the  people,  they 
made  a  little  world  of  a  dozen  souls  (I  sup- 
pose) in  as  many  bodies. 

Coming  down  from  London  to  Leaming- 
ton (which  was  the  station  for  Harrowden- 
Burleigh)  with  my  mother  and  my  maid,  I 
had  vaguely  recalled  the  mention  of  the 
"  lash  "  which,  selon  lui,  my  mother's  friend 
had  thought  I  needed.  I  smiled  as  I,  of 
course,  remembered  in  this  connection  the 
face  of  Jack  Bingham.  I  did  not  quite  see 
the  value  of  the  remark  in  my  especial  case, 
for  it  is  one  of  my  creeds  that  to  be  sought  is 
the  seed  of  a  woman's  love,  and  speaking 
personally,  not  generally,  I  cannot  fancy  a 
girl  caring  for  anyone  minus  the  necessary 
II 


The  New  Yorkers 


fact  of  his  first  caring  for  her.  So,  you  see, 
I  smile,  pondering  a  little  over  the  possibili- 
ties of  my  new  entourage. 

Lady  Heathcote  is  large,  suave,  command- 
ing, supple,  for  all  her  avoirdupois,  with  lid- 
less  lynx  eyes  and  a  tongue  of  honey ;  an  in- 
finitude of  tact,  an  ocean  of  perceptiveness, 
any  amount  of  brutality,  and  the  aplomb  of 
the  skirt-dancer.  Du  reste,  she  is  well  born, 
well  bred,  excellently  cultivated,  up  in  all 
things,  keen,  with  positive  love  for  her 
strange  metier — this  last  not  surprising, 
since  she  had  found  it  to  the  greatest  degree 
profitable. 

There  were  ten  other  guests  (at  twenty 
pounds  a  week)  at  Harrowden-Burleigh 
when  I  came,  some  of  them  hopeless,  some 
of  them  brimming  with  expectation,  a  few 
vulgar,  the  remainder  tolerably  conven- 
tional. 

Lady  Heathcote  began  by  dismissing  my 
maid,  and  supplying  me  with  a  person  per- 
fectly qualified  to  touch  up  my  brown  hair 
and  my  complexion.    I  let  her  do  both. 

The  humor  of  the  whole  situation,  includ- 
ing my  mother's  almost  feverish  adjurations 

12 


and  Other  People 


when  she  parted  from  me  to  return  to  Nice 
for  the  winter,  as  to  "  obeying  Lady  Heath- 
cote  to  the  letter,"  struck  me  so  forcibly  and 
with  such  efficient  novelty  that  I  threw  my- 
self into  it  much  as  if  it  had  been  a  bath  of 
milk  and  roses.  Whatever  my  own  belief 
might  be  as  to  the  outcome  of  these  six 
months  under  Lady  Heathcote's  fostering 
care,  I  plunged  into  it  without  reservation, 
enjoying  my  own  sensations  with  a  certain 
peculiar  relish. 

The  code  was  a  rigid  one ;  it  left  no  corner 
unturned,  no  page  unread,  no  depth  un- 
sounded, either  physically,  mentally,  or — I 
had  almost  said  morally,  but  with  the  third 
in  the  terrestrial  equilibrium  of  the  art  of 
living  Lady  Heathcote  did  not  occupy  her- 
self or  her  pupils  too  much. 

I  came  out  of  my  room  tinted  and  im- 
proved with  brushes  and  dyes,  although 
there  was  no  one  specially  to  look  at  me,  but 
it  was  urged  that  I  must  submit  to  this  now, 
in  order  that  my  nature  might  become  ac- 
customed to  it  by  the  time,  when,  equipped 
au  bout  des  angles,  I  should  emerge  from 
Harrowden-Burleigh  and  secure  my  parti 
13 


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To  secure  a  parti  was  the  acme  of  Lady 
Heathcote's  scheme:  to  this  end  all  means 
subserved.  It  was  her  belief  that  the  raw 
material  mattered  but  little,  and  she  frankly 
avowed  that  she  argued  from  her  own  ex- 
perience. 

I,"  said  Lady  Heathcote,  "  had  neither 
beauty,  distinction,  an  overplus  of  brains, 
nor  fortuitous  circumstances  to  insure  my 
success,  but  I  had  that  infallible  instinct 
wdiich  urged  me  to  make  the  most  of  myself ; 
an  instinct  dormant  in  many  women,  which 
merely  requires  to  be  awakened  in  order  to 
accomplish  its  ends." 

Our  weeks  were  weeks  of  routine,  but  to 
me  the  delicious,  excruciating  sarcasm  of  the 
whole  affair  rendered  them  periods  of  epi- 
curean enjoyment.  I  abandoned  myself  to 
the  regime  much  as,  I  dare  say,  the  opium- 
smoker  gives  himself  up  to  his  pipe,  with 
the  added  zest  of  holding  the  reins  on  my 
own  intellect  all  the  while,  and  revelling  in 
the  brilliant  Satanic,  sardonic  end-of-the- 
century-ism  of  it  all. 

The  day  began,  instructively  speaking, 
with  showing  us  how  to  walk,  to  enter  a 
14 


and  Other  People 


room  on  different  occasions,  as  for  a  ball,  a 
reception,  a  tea,  a  funeral,  a  morning  call ; 
how  to  leave  it  under  these  same  circum- 
stances ;  how  to  get  in  a  carriage,  and  to  get 
out.  This  feat  was  performed  in  the  solemn 
seclusion  of  the  stable-yard  with  the  attend- 
ant properties  of  coach  and  footman.  Lady 
Heathcote  standing  surveying  us,  as  each  in 
turn  merited  her  approbation  or  her  frowns. 
How  to  behave  under  a  series  of  circum- 
stances of  all  kinds  too  numerous  to  men- 
tion ;  how  to  be  dressed,  and  how  not  to  be ; 
how  to  treat  inferiors,  superiors,  equals, 
friends,  foes  ;  how  to  dance,  and  how  not  to  ; 
how  to  approach  the  brink  of  risk,  without 
tumbling  over ;  how  to  attract  the  attention 
of  men — never  how  not  to  ! — how  to  pour 
tea,  how  to  eat  and  to  drink. 

These  were  but  a  few  of  our  daily  phases 
of  instruction,  but  the  points  upon  which 
Lady  Heathcote  most  insisted  were  Conver- 
sation, Pose,  Balance,  Reserve,  and  Love. 

On  these  subjects  she  gave  us  little  five- 
minute  lectures  of  a  most  edifying  nature, 
which  were  followed  by  as  much  discussion 
as  our  intellectual  staff  would  permit. 
15 


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"  In  Conversation,"  Lady  Heathcote  told 
us,  nothing  is  impossible,  or  unmention- 
able. A  woman  of  to-day,  to  succeed,  must 
be  able  to  converse  on  politics,  religion,  athe- 
ism, occultism,  temperance,  suffrage,  di- 
vorce, education,  slums,  social  reform,  the 
relations  and  equalities  of  the  sexes,  litera- 
ture, especially  fiction ;  plays,  music-halls, 
characterless  women,  and  topics  of  all 
kinds  where  reputation  is  an  unknown  quan- 
tity." 

As  for  Pose,  she  would  have  had  us  be- 
lieve that  its  results  are  enormous,  telling  us 
that  while  it  was  only  necessary  to  appear  in- 
terested at  times,  it  was  imperative  that  we 
should  always  be  picturesque,  with  a  sus- 
picion of  suggestiveness ;  that  the  pose 
should  convey  a  tacit  a:ssentive  admiration 
for  the  predilections  of  the  nearest  man,  if 
he  were  eligible,  and  that  with  all  its  cs- 
pieglerie,  there  should  always  exist  a  certain 
deference  to  him,  as  man. 

I  remarked  here  one  day  that  I  called  that 
sort  of  thing  deceit,  if  not  worse. 

Lady  Heathcote  smiled.  My  dear,"  she 
replied,  your  language  lacks  varnish ;  it  is 
i6 


and  Other  People 

sexual  conciliation,"  and  blandly  proceeded 
on  her  way. 

"  Balance,"  she  explained,  "  is  the  equi- 
poise born  of  experience,"  and  this  equipoise 
she  revealed  as  "  the  result  of  a  perfect 
acquaintance  with  all  things,  no  matter 
what." 

"  But  some  things  are  unfit,  indecent,"  I 
said,  flushing  and  shame-faced. 

Lady  Heathcote  again  smiled.  "  My  dear 
Miss  Grey,  the  ethics  of  modern  civilization 
have  left  nothing  indecent.  Everything 
must  be  known,  handled,  and  criticised.  In 
order  to  arrive  at  a  correct  valuation  of  one's 
self,  one  must  dig  up  the  earth  as  well  as 
telescope  the  heavens.  In  order  to  battle 
with  one's  tendencies,  one  must  discover 
them." 

"  Reserve "  Lady  Heathcote  defined  as 
"  an  assumption  conceded  to  tradition,  and 
useful  in  bringing  down  the  game.  Man  is 
by  nature  a  hunter,  a  pursuer;  so  much  we 
must  concede  to  what  we  cannot  overcome, 
and  in  deference  to  this  fact,  woman,  in  deal- 
ing with  him,  employs  the  weapon  of  re- 
serve, and  a  most  useful  one  it  is,  too." 
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I  turned  off  in  disgust  to  a  window. 

"  Has  all  your  training  but  one  goal,  Lady 
Heathcote?"  I  cry;  "a  man  to  be  capt- 
ured?" 

"  Since  Eve,  who  left  Adam  no  choice, 
there  being  no  other  woman  then  in  exist- 
ence, my  dear  child,  the  aim  of  every  well- 
ordered  feminine  mind,  is  that  which  you 
are  pleased  to  designate  so  coarsely." 

I  laugh.  The  ironical  sweetness  of  Lady 
Heathcote's  application  of  coarseness  " 
strikes  me  as  delightfully  funny. 

"  I  suppose,  then,"  I  say,  that  reserve  is 
the  only  recognition  necessary  of  man's  in- 
herent nature ;  otherwise  sex  is  an  uncon- 
sidered distinction,  minus  even  a  differ- 
ence ?  " 

"  Sex  is  not  in  it.  Miss  Grey.  Literature, 
art,  science,  recognize  no  such  thing;  it  is 
one  of  the  happy  eliminations  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  that  squeamishness  of  gen- 
der has  ceased  to  affect  our  modern  life. 
True,  we  have  not  been  able  to  eradicate  it 
from  the  principles  which  tend  to  the  popu- 
lation of  the  world,  but  that  is  neither  here 
nor  there." 

i8 


and  Other  People 


"  No — only  everywhere,"  I  murmur  un- 
der my  breath. 

"  Love — "  Lady  Heathcote  turned  her 
lorgnette  upon  us  all  as  we  lounged  about 
the  big  hall  in  easy-chairs  and  sofas  that 
morning — 

Love,  mes  amies,  is  usually  either  an 
unknown  quantity,  or  it  is  taken  too  seri- 
ously. One-half  the  world  will  never  learn 
its  alphabet;  one-quarter  is  submerged  by 
its  whelm ;  while  the  remaining  quarter  en- 
joys it  from  one  end  of  its  moody  gamut  to 
the  other.  It  is  my  aim  that  you  should,  one 
and  all,  belong  to  this  last  class.  In  order 
to  do  so,  two  things  must  be  eradicated; 
what  is  called  naturalness  and  what  is  called 
unconsciousness.  Both  are  foolish,  well 
enough  for  peasants,  and  for  poets  to  rhyme 
about,  but  for  women  of  the  world,  useless. 
Self-consciousness  is  the  open  sesame  to 
power  over  men  and  over  occasions ;  the  un- 
conscious woman  never  arrives.  Art,  as 
differentiated  from  naturalness,  is  the  key 
to  getting  there,  especially  in  love.  You 
must  remember,  too,  that  to  love  once  is 
archaic  and  a  positive  negligence  of  one's 
19 


The  New  Yorkers 


opportunities ;  it  is  the  man  or  woman  who 
loves  often  and  with  a  self-conscious  enjoy- 
ment of  each  successive  phase,  who  derives 
the  most  from  this  possibiHty.  Now,  I  want 
you  all  to  leave  me,  knowing  your  own  pow- 
ers, your  own  capacities,  equipped  to  obtain 
the  greatest  possible  amount  of  success  in 
your  different  paths.  I  have,  therefore,  de- 
cided to  make  an  innovation ;  I  had  engaged 
the  services  of  Air.  Claude  Linton,  of  the 
Haymarket  Theatre.  Unfortunately,  a  de- 
spatch, received  a  few  moments  ago  only, 
tells  me  he  is  too  ill  to  fulfil  his  promise  to 
me  for  to-day,  but  he  is  sending  an  adequate 
representative,  he  assures  me,  in  the  person 
of  Mr.  Beresford  Clyde,  of  the  Lyceum,  I 
think,  who  will  soon  be  with  us." 

"  How  delightful !  "  I  exclaimed,  ironi- 
cally.     What  does  he  come  for?  " 

"  To  propose  to  you.  Miss  Grey,  and 
to  the  others,"  adds  her  ladyship,  with  a 
smile. 

In  short,  I  have  prepared  a  little  role 
or  code,  which  I  sent  up  to  town  to  Mr.  Lin- 
ton to  study ;  the  role  of  a  man  in  love  and 
proposing.    This  part  Mr.  Clyde  will  enact 
20 


and  Other  People 


successively  with  each  of  you,  beginning 
with  Miss  Grey." 

"  But  my  role  ?  "  I  interrupted  with  heat 
and  amusement. 

I  leave  that  to  your  ingenuity.  I  will 
sit  yonder.  I  wish  to  see  what  you  will  each 
do  under  the  circumstances ;  afterward  I 
will  point  out  your  errors." 

The  quintessence  of  fin-de-siecle-ism! " 
cry  I.  This  is  surely  the  last  day,  the  last 
hour  of  the  poor  nineteenth  century ;  "  and 
thereupon  carriage-wheels  crunch  the  grav- 
el, and  we  are  warned  of  the  arrival  of  Mr. 
Beresford  Clyde. 

It  may  be  supposed  that  life  at  Harrow- 
den-Burleigh  was  monotonous;  it  was  far 
from  it.  We  saw  numbers  of  people  of  all 
sorts,  in  Lady  Heathcote's  circle  of  coun- 
try acquaintance.  She  was  known  to  have 
classes,"  but  in  what,  remained  a  mystery, 
masquerading  under  the  convenient  cogno- 
men of  "  Literature ;  "  and  as  her  pupils,  we 
moved  about,  hither  and  yon,  with  as  much 
ease  as  each  was  mistress  of.  We  went  up 
to  London  for  all  the  worst  plays,  for  all  the 
picture  shows ;  we  read  all  the  worst  books, 

21 


The  New  Yorkers 


and  we  had  no  end  of  exercise  on  horses, 
'mobes,  and  wheels.  About  the  whole  house 
there  was  an  atmosphere  of  benignant  insin- 
cerity, so  to  speak,  and  purposeless  intention, 
which,  while  it  awed  some  of  us,  yet  soothed ; 
and  to  me  was  a  never-failing  source  of  en- 
tertainment. 

The  announcement,  then,  of  the  pro- 
posal "  lesson  could  not  fail  to  strike  my 
sense  of  the  ludicrous.  I  was  filled  with 
merriment  as  Lady  Heathcote,  after  a  pre- 
liminary chat  with  the  anxious  lover,  ush- 
ered me  into  his  presence,  and  introduced  to 
me    Mr.  Beresford  Clyde." 

Jack  Bingham  stood  before  me. 

I  stood  before  him. 

The  door-bell  rang  (the  goddess  of  mercy 
must  have  guided  the  ringer's  hand),  and 
Lady  Heathcote  was  called  out  of  the  room 
for  a  few  moments. 

"  And  you  are  here !  "  he  says,  a  little 
wildly. 

''And  you  also?"  I  answer,  with  calm- 
ness. 

"  As  a  matter  of  pure  deviltry,  I  assure 
you.    Linton  is  ill ;  had  told  me  something 

22 


and  Other  People 

of  this  place  as  an  actual  and  a  remarkable 
spot,  offered  to  have  me  come  in  his  place, 
for  the  sport  and  the  curiosity  of  the  thing, 
and  I  accepted,  under  an  assumed  name  and 
a  pledge  of  secrecy.    You  know  all." 

I  shrug  my  shoulders. 

"  And  you,"  he  says,  aghast,  "  you  are  not 
here  of  your  own  free  will  ?  " 

"  Surely,"  I  say,  "  why  not?  "  I  look  at 
him,  I  laugh ;  it  is  a  bewitching  little  laugh, 
and  I  know  it. 

What  else  do  I  know  ?  I  know  that  I  am 
what  Lady  Heathcote  would  call  arriv- 
ing ;  "  that  self-consciousness,  thenceforth 
and  forevermore,  must  dominate  my  being 
and  bring  to  me  what  my  preceptress  says  it 
will — or  something  else. 

As  I  laugh.  Jack  Bingham  gazes  at  me  in 
blank  amazement.  I  daresay  he  never  sup- 
posed I  should  learn  such  syren  notes — and 
Lady  Heathcote  returns.  She  pauses,  lis- 
tens, looks,  says : 

**  My  dear  Miss  Grey,  you  are  arriving; 
pray  proceed.  See,  I  will  sit  here.  How 
far  had  you  gotten,  Mr.  Clyde  ?  "  picking  up 
a  MS.  from  the  table. 

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The  New  Yorkers 


Jack  Bingham  seemed  dazed  and  there  is 
a  tiny  pause — oh  so  tiny,  because  I  answer 
airily  for  him. 

"  Lady  Heathcote,  dear,  only  so  far  as  the 
third  speech  for  Mr.  Clyde ;  pray  give  him 
the  cue  for  the  fourth.  You  see  he  has  had 
little  or  no  time  to  prepare  for  the — er — les- 
son." 

Lady  Heathcote  does  as  she  is  requested, 
the  proposal  proceeds,  takes  place,  is  re- 
fused. I  so  work  out  my  role,  and  Lady 
Heathcote  is  simply  wild  over  my  success. 

After  Mr.  Clyde  has  gone  to  meet  his 
train,  she  confesses  that  he  was  a  "  very  poor 
hand  at  the  business  in  the  beginning  with 
Miss  Grey,  but  worked  into  it  better  at  the 
end  with  little  Miss  Callowby."  I  hope  he 
did. 

As  I  have  said,  we  went  up  to  London 
very  often;  and  only  a  week  after  the  visit 
of  Mr.  Beresford  Clyde  we  found  ourselves 
at  Burlington  House  contemplating  some 
examples  of  the  nude,  and  discussing  the 
same  with  all  the  sangfroid  of  genuine 
Boulevardiercs.  I  was  close  to  the  rail  and 
unabashed,  the  crowd  pressing  me  and  our 
24 


and  Other  People 


chaperon.  Someway,  since  I  had  discov- 
ered myself  that  day  last  week  in  the  pro- 
posal lesson,  I  had  become  reckless,  with 
what  Lady  Heathcote  calls  the  "  joyous 
recklessness  of  one  who  does  a  thing  with 
all  his  wits  primed  and  with  knowledge  of 
compunction  and  yet  disdaining  it." 

She  was  pointing  out  the  beauty  of  the 
woman's  arms  in  the  painting,  when  I 
turned.  Jack  Bingham's  eyes  and  mine 
met,  his  just  returning  from  their  excursion 
to  the  nude  picture,  mine  ditto;  the  man 
flushed ;  I  don't  know  whether  the  girl  did 
or  not — under  the  pink  powder  it  was  hard 
to  tell.  Without  a  word  he  turned  off  as  if 
he  had  been  shot,  linking  his  arm  in  that  of 
the  man  who  was  his  companion. 

Lady  Heathcote  had  not  seen  him.  Pres- 
ently, when  we  were  all  sitting  on  the  divans 
discussing  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray  " 
con  amore,  she  espied  him  and  his  friend. 

"  There  is  Hardy !  "  she  cries,  and  that 
young  actor  who  came  down  to  Harrowden 
last  week  in  Linton's  stead,  is  with  him." 

Some  of  us  craned  our  necks  to  see  the 
artist-author,  some  of  us  did  not. 

25 


The  New  Yorkers 


Apropos,"  continues  Lady  Heathcote. 
"  What  could  be  more  charming  than  to 
speak  of  *  Tess  '  while  watching  her  author. 
You  have  all  read  '  Tess,'  I  will  not  insult 
your  intelligence  by  an  interrogation  point." 

"  I  never  have,"  I  remarked,  bluntly. 

"  My  love !  "  Lady  Heathcote  and  my  fel- 
low-pupils all  turn  startled  eyes  upon  me. 

Then  you  will  listen  while  we  chat  about 
the  delightful  creature,  and  I  will  buy  you  a 
copy  before  we  go  home." 

I  don't  care  to  read  it,"  I  say,  languidly. 
"  I  know  enough  of  it  to  suffice  me." 

"  If  you  knovv  enough  of  *  Tess,'  then, 
Miss  Grey,  give  us  your  opinion  of  it,"  says 
her  ladyship,  sharply. 

I  answer,  "  I  call  the  book  (granting,  too, 
the  genius,  power,  worth,  and  beauty  of  it) 
— the  canonization  of  the  scarlet  letter.  It 
is  that  to  me,  and  nothing  else  whatever." 

The  pupils  look  a  little  alarmed.  Strange 
that  persons  who  will  rhapsodize  over  pict- 
ures of  the  nude  and  Mrs.  Tanqueray  plays 
feel  it  incumbent  always  to  resent  a  plain 
Saxon  statement  of  the  same  order  of  thing. 

Lady  Heathcote  pauses.      My  dear,"  she 
26 


and  Other  People 

finally  says,  "  you  forget  that  sin  is  merely 
undirected  attempt  at  development,  and  that 
development  is  progress." 

"  Let  us  then  stand  still,"  I  say,  "  and 
cease  progressing.  Painters  and  sculptors 
do  not  select  three-legged  colts,  two-headed 
girls,  bearded  ladies,  or  hunchbacks,  to  im- 
mortalize and  place  before  us  for  our  criti- 
cism and  admiration ;  composers  do  not  hurl 
discord  at  our  ears ;  why  then  should  liter- 
ature, under  the  alias  of  fidelity  to  life,  hold 
up  to  us  the  sordid,  the  unclean,  the  scarred, 
the  libertines,  the  prostitutes,  and,  decking 
them  with  all  the  roses  and  lilies  of  its  splen- 
did imagery,  bid  us  come  sup,  and  thank, 
and  applaud,  and  call  crime,  innocence,  and 
sin,  art?  Why,  too,  does  the  stage,  which 
should  be  the  best  mouthpiece  of  literature, 
play  out  for  us  the  lives  of  women  and  men 
from  whose  actual  contact  we  would  shrink 
as  from  a  leper  ?  " 

"  Because,  my  dear,  we  like  it ;  because 
we  are  desirous  of  perfecting  ourselves  in 
the  knowledge  of  all  things,  of  sounding  the 
depths  of  the  most  devious  wanderings  of 
the  human  being ;  because  we  all  have  hor- 
27 


The  New  Yorkers 


rible  possibilities,  everyone  of  us,  and  it  is 
the  trend  of  the  age  that  we  should  be  past- 
masters  in  cognizance  of  every  degree,  of 
both  innocence,  and  what  you  call  sin." 

And  then  we  go  somewhere  and  eat  ices 
and  presently  take  the  train  for  Leaming- 
ton. 

"  The  season  "  at  Harrowden-Burleigh 
came  to  an  end:  the  eleven  young  women, 
who  had  been  under  the  guidance  of  its  fac- 
ile mistress  from  October  until  April,  fell 
apart  all  at  once,  and  I  doubt  if  any  ever  be- 
held each  other  again. 

Lady  Heathcote  had  written  my  mother, 
that  of  all  her  pupils,  I  was  the  one  from 
whom  she  should  expect  the  most ;  that  my 
innate  vein  of  originality  might  surely  be  re- 
lied upon  to  land  me  on  a  pinnacle — a  posi- 
tion, looking  at  it  dispassionately,  which 
must  be  uncommonly  easeless.  However,  I 
was  quit  of  Harrowden ;  not  sorry,  nor  yet 
glad;  passive  as  yet,  save  that  I  sent  the 
maid  of  her  ladyship's  choosing  flying,  and 
took  one  who  suited  me,  and  that  I  threw 
the  pink  powder  in  the  fire,  if  I  did  retain  the 
golden  hair  touch-up. 

28 


and  Other  People 


Mamma  took  a  house  near  Queen's  Gate 
for  three  months,  and  blandly  informed  me 
that  she  was  going  to    bring  me  out !  " 

She  did,  too.  I  had  the  inestimable  priv- 
ilege, accorded  but  few  young  women,  of 
making  my  bud's  bow  twice.  It  was  suc- 
cessful, too.  My  mother  had  the  aplomb 
of  a  diplomat  and  at  the  same  time  the  gra- 
ciousness  which  a  diplomat's  wife  should 
have — but  has  not  always — and  then,  too 
(why  do  we  shamefacedly  name  the  great- 
est factor  last?),  she  had  unlimited  money. 
The  Americans,  of  course,  elevated  their 
brows  and  told  one  another  that  I  had  been 
launched  years  ago  in  New  York ;  neverthe- 
less, they  came  and  bade  me  Godspeed  in 
my  new  career.  When  the  English  people 
heard  the  tale,  they  laughed  and  held  it  a 
refreshing  jest ;  both  sets  in  reality,  I  think, 
looking  upon  my  mother  as  a  woman  of  pos- 
itive genius.    She  was. 

She  had  introduced  me  at  home  at  seven- 
teen; I  amounted  to  worse  than  nothing. 
Four  years  later,  after  only  eight  months' 
seclusion,  I  am  again  a  debutante  abroad, 
and  I  am  one  of  the  most  emphatic  successes 


FREi  PljbglC/UfBRARY 


ERSEY 


The  New  Yorkers 


a  London  season  ever  knew,  greater  than 
even  my  lady  mother  had  dreamed. 

I  admired  her  triumph  intensely.  It 
made  her  almost  girlish  in  her  beauty,  it 
irradiated  and  enriched  her  whole  nature. 
She  was  a  woman  than  whom  none  knew 
better  how  to  bask  in  popularity,  and  in  her 
supreme  content  I  found  a  singular  pleasure. 
Du  rest,  for  myself?  At  first  I  could  hardly 
take  it  all  seriously.  I  would  stand  for  half- 
hours  in  front  of  my  mirror  wondering  at 
the  face  men  raved  over,  artists  painted,  pa- 
pers reproduced,  women  envied.  And  well 
I  might ;  my  beauty  lay  not  there,  but  rather 
where  adventure  spoke  in  my  eyes;  and 
where,  about  the  turn  of  my  throat,  or  the 
bend  of  my  arm,  or  the  hint  of  my  speech,  or 
the  arrow  of  my  jest,  lurked  all  the  uiagnifi- 
cent  perhapses  that  I  felt  coursing  at  last 
through  my  blood  and  brain. 

Decidedly,  I  had  "  discovered  myself," 
and  unhesitatingly  I  plunged  into  this  new 
life  for  all  it  was  worth,  with  now  and  then 
a  strange  backward  stare  at  the  listless  dull 
girl  who  had  once  been  I. 

Nothing  can  well  be  more  delightful,  more 
30 


and  Other  People 


exhilarating,  other  matters  being  equal,  than 
the  London  season.  The  very  streets  of  May- 
fair  and  Belgravia  are,  to  my  mind,  redolent 
of  the  atmosphere  of  gayety;  the  glowing 
window  gardens,  the  tint  of  lamp  and  can- 
dlelight through  the  filmy  lace  of  the  cur- 
tains, the  dim  mist  lifting  over  far-off  St. 
Stephens'  towers,  the  bustle  and  din,  the 
fresh  pure  air,  the  crush  at  Hyde  Park  Cor- 
ner, the  soft  earth  of  the  Row  under  my 
horses'  hoofs,  the  kiss  of  the  wind  on  my 
cheek,  the  dew  on  the  turf,  the  man  at  my 
side — he  chanced  to  be  the  Duke  of  Devon- 
exe,  and  one  of  the  haughtiest  peers  in  Eu- 
rope. 

A  week  later,  I  think  my  mother's  cup 
filled  to  the  brim.  We  received  our  invita- 
tion for  a  four  days'  visit  at  Marlborough 
House.  The  second  evening  of  our  stay  I 
am  sure  her  cup  ran  over.  I  stood  with  His 
Royal  Highness  at  my  right,  and  Devonexe 
at  my  left,  but  I  almost  forgot  myself  in 
looking  at  mamma.  She  was  in  reality 
forty-one,  but  she  appeared,  with  her  slim 
figure,  spirituelle  features,  regal  little  head, 
and  perfect  savoir  faire,  to  be  only  half  of  it. 
31 


The  New  Yorkers 


She  seemed  in  her  element,  proud,  a  Httle 
imperious,  beautiful,  conquering — well,  it 
was  worth  all  of  Harrowden-Burleigh  to  see 
any  other  human  being  so  happy. 

Devonexe  offered  himself  to  me  that  even- 
ing, which  would  hardly  be  worth  chroni- 
cling, save  for  two  facts :  one  was  that  I  ac- 
cepted him,  the  other  that  his  proposal  was 
utterly  different  from  any  of  the  dozens  I 
had  listened  to. 

I  had  had  my  dance  with  my  Royal  host 
and  been  seated,  when  the  Duke  came  up  and 
said,  very  quietly : 

Are  you  willing  to  sit  a  dance  out  with 
me  in  that  little  room  yonder.  Miss  Grey?  " 

I  assented,  and  when  we  reached  the  lit- 
tle room  yonder,"  His  Grace  merely  placed 
me  in  a  chair  and  stood  before  me  with  his 
arms  folded,  and  said,  very  calmly : 

"  I  want  to  offer  you  myself  and  all  I  have 
and  am ;  I  want  to  know  if  I  am  worthy 
your  acceptance,  if  you  will  be  my  wife  ?  " 

He  was  very  pale,  and  there  was  an  odd 
pressure  about  his  lips  as  he  leaned  a  little 
for  my  answer.    Not  a  word  of  love,  not  one 
seeking  of  my  hand  by  his.    I  realized  it 
32 


and  Other  People 

perfectly.  It  struck  me  as  charming, 
unique,  novel,  combined  with  his  paleness 
and  that  twitch  of  his  mouth. 

I  got  up  and  crossed  the  room  to  the  win- 
dow ;  he  did  not  follow  me,  but  his  eyes  did. 
I  felt  them  keenly.  I  turned  back  to  him 
and  looked  up  in  his  face;  he  looked  down 
at  me,  his  arms  still  folded,  and  said,  very 
low : 

"  It  is  so  great,  so  marvellous,  so  unutter- 
able that  I  dare  not  even  say,  *  I  love  you.' 
I  shall  show  it  you  from  this  time  forth  for- 
ever, and,  I  know  you  do  not,  cannot,  love 
me  now.  I  am  content,  I  will  wait ;  it  will, 
it  must  come !  "  and  His  Grace's  arms  are 
around  me,  and  his  lips  are  warm  on  mine. 

It  is  only  a  month  ago  that  my  marriage 
took  place,  at  the  chapel  Royal  Savoy,  in  the 
presence  of  Royalty  and  with  the  Prince 
of  Darmstadt-Deszberg  for  best  man,  ten 
bridesimaids  and  a  list  of  notable  guests 
much  longer  than  the  moral  law. 

We  went  down  to  Devonexe  Court  for  a 
fortnight,  and  then  we  came  on  to  America, 
and  we  are  stopping  at  my  mother's  house 
on  Fifth  Avenue,  before  we  go  to  Newport. 
33 


The  New  Yorkers 


Eh  Bien,  decidedly  the  Duchess  of  Dev- 
onexe  is  a  success.  Christie,  dull,  spiritless, 
uncomfortable,  hopeless  Christie  is  the  beau- 
ty of  her  day,  however  long  or  short  it  may 
be. 

I  sometimes  smile  as  I  remember  what 
Mr.  McAllister  said  about  the  lash."  I 
have  never  felt  it  yet,  but  I  have  certainly 
arrived." 

A  knock. 

"  Yes,  come  in." 

My  maid  with  a  man's  card. 

"  Mr.  John  Berkeley  Bingham,  The  Cum- 
berland," I  read. 

"  Say  to  Mr.  Bingham  that — I  will  see 
him  in  a  few  moments." 

Yes,  I  have  "  arrived,"  but,  tell  me, 
where  ? 


34 


and  Other  People 


PART  II 

On  the  stage,  the  heroine  of  the  moment 
cannot  make  a  more  effective  entrance  than 
through  the  parting  of  portieres  which  shall 
disclose  her  (standing  erect  with  one  arm 
guilelessly  uplifted  against  the  hangings)  to 
the  gaze  of  the  man  who  waits  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

It  was  after  this  fashion,  and  with  a  smile 
on  my  lips,  that  I  revealed  myself  to  Jack 
Bingham  that  June  day. 

I  could  not  imagine  what  had  brought 
him  (aside  from  the  usual  means  of  loco- 
motion), for,  although  my  mother  had  in- 
cluded him  in  the  list  of  people  asked  to  my 
wedding,  I  making  no  objection,  since  I 
knew  him  then  to  be  in  Egypt,  I  still  did  not 
see  his  way  clear  to  an  afternoon  call. 

He  soon  explained  it,  however,  by  hand- 
ing me  a  packet  that  mamma  had  intrusted 
to  him  for  me,  and  which  I  perceived  at 
once  was  regarded  by  him  as  a  godsend. 

It  is  extremely  doubtful  if  an  average 
woman  often  finds  herself  in  a  position  to 
35 


The  New  Yorkers 


want  to  ignore  this  state  of  things  with  the 
man  in  question ;  I  did,  however,  and  in 
order  to  bring  Mr.  Bingham  into  very 
proper  form,  I  asked  him  if  he  remembered 
our  charming  Httle  rencontre  at  Lady  Heath- 
cote's,  deeming  the  mere  mention  of  that 
episode  would  be  enough  to  put  to  flight  the 
eager  ambitions  of  his  tell-tale  eyes. 

I  was  therefore  somewhat  surprised  when 
he  distinctly  told  me  that  he  had  not  the 
smallest  recollection  of  the  occasion  to  which 
I  was  pleased  to  refer ;  and,  moreover,  with 
a  face  of  imperturbable  interest,  he  inquired 
when  it  was,  and  begged  me  to  particularize ! 

I  did  so  with  a  frankness  that  ought  to 
have  been  considered  admirable,  but  which 
failed  in  either  impressing  my  guest  or  en- 
dowing him  with  a  better  memory  than  he 
chose  to  have. 

"  I  see,"  I  said  at  last ;  "  you  will  not  rec- 
ollect the  day  you  proposed  to  me !  "  laugh- 
ing. "  Older  men  have  wished  to  ignore 
their  follies  before  this ;  but,  tell  me,  don't 
you  think  Lady  Heathcote  a  genius  after  her 
kind,  now  really  ?  " 

"  I  never  knew  Lady  Heathcote,"  Bing- 
36 


and  Other  People 

ham  replied,  icily,  "  and  I  could  not  remem- 
ber anything  or  anybody  which  had  con- 
spired to  give  you  a  false  environment." 

I  forgave  the  grammar  for  the  sake  of  the 
neatness  of  the  sentiment. 

There  was  nothing  else  now  left  for  me 
to  do.  When  a  woman  finds  that  a  man  has 
her  at  a  disadvantage  of  this  sort,  she  is 
bound  to  think  better  of  him  than  if  she 
holds  the  whip-hand  to  the  end. 

We  meandered  on  about  people  and  things 
glibly  enough  until  Devonexe  came  in. 

Of  course  I  compared  the  two  at  once,  to 
the  infinite  superiority  of  the  one  over  the 
other.  Jack  was  charmingly  at  ease,  and 
although  Devonexe  opened  his  eyes,  I  did 
not  mention  my  guest's  coming  again,  or 
regret  we  were  off  for  Newport  in  a  week,  or 
ask  him  to  dine,  or  in  any  shape  revert  to  the 
future  possibilities  of  his  existence. 

We  bade  each  other  good-morning  with 
elaborate  courtesy ;  the  men  shook  hands. 

And  Bingham  left  me,  carrying  off  under 
his  eyelids,  I  knew,  the  image  of  a  woman 
in  a  blue  gown,  and  with  a  wedding-ring  on 
her  finger. 

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The  New  Yorkers 


I  do  not  know  of  any  combination  more 
delicious  than  the  piazza  of  the  Billows  at 
Newport  at  starlight  time  in  early  July,  with 
a  warm  wind  softly  blowing  in  between  the 
vines  and  bringing  with  it  the  tang  of  the 
sea-salt ;  a  big  bunch  of  heliotropes  on  the 
tiny  table  at  my  side,  a  taste  of  pineapple-ice 
between  my  lips,  and,  to  be  sure,  Devonexe 
lounging  on  a  low  seat  at  my  feet,  with  the 
odor  of  cashmere  bouquet  faintly  on  his 
dark  handsome  head,  fresh  from  his  after- 
plunge  toilet. 

My  husband  laid  his  head  down  on  my 
lap,  which  caused  me  to  put  aside  my  ice- 
plate  at  once.  He  spoke  and  I  answered  a 
little,  until  we  fell  into  that  silence  which  is 
more  eloquent  than  speech,  and  only  possi- 
ble^ they  say,  to  people  who  thoroughly  un- 
derstand each  other. 

I  am  not  clear  as  to  this  last  clause,  be- 
cause I  am  quite  sure,  by  the  light  of  later 
days,  that  Devonexe  and  I  had  not  the  re- 
motest idea  of  one  another  then. 

Being  under  the  impression  that  I  had 
been  married,  open-eyed,  principally  for  the 
sake  of  my  millions,  I  had  matter-of-factly 
38 


and  Other  People 

so  treated  the  least  or  greatest  of  his  Grace's 
attempts  at  demonstration. 

Lately  it  had  struck  me  that  it  would  not 
be  unamusing,  and,  assuredly,  it  could  not 
be  wrong,  were  I  to  indulge  Devonexe  and 
coquette  a  little  with  him ;  indeed,  the  mood 
of  being  absolutely  interested  in  so  doing 
with  one's  own  husband  appealed  to  me  as 
something  uniquely  worth  while. 

"  This  is  paradise,"  Devonexe  says  pres- 
ently, slipping  his  arms  up  over  his  head  and 
around  my  waist  in  a  curiously  uncertain 
way. 

"  Newport  has  often  been  called  so,"  I 
■say,  shrinking  a  little  in  my  seat. 

"  Newport !  "  My  liege  lord  sits  erectly 
enough  now,  loosing  his  languid  hold  of  me. 

"  You  know  very  well  I  did  not  mean 
Newport.  I  meant  being  out  here  in  the 
darkness  with  nothing  but  the  beat  of  the 
sea  yonder  to  disturb  us,  no  human  beings !  " 

The  thrill  in  his  voice  was  delicious,  and  it 
sounded  surprisingly  genuine.  Decidedly, 
since  Devonexe  could  play  so  pretty  and 
lover-like  a  role  so  well,  why  should  not  his 
wife  respond  in  kind? 

39 


The  New  Yorkers 


Indeed,  I  almost  felt  what  I  should  call  a 
throb  at  my  own  heart  as  I  answered  him, 
he  reaching  out  warm,  clasping  hands  for 
mine. 

*'  It  is  exquisite ;  is  it  not  ?  " 

I  feel  his  fingers  creep  up  my  bared  arms 
to  my  throat,  my  face,  and  draw  it  down  that 
my  lips  may  meet  his. 

Well,  the  bitter-sweetness  of  some  things 
is  indescribable. 

It  was  as  well  that  my  husband  remained 
in  ignorance  of  my  thoughts  or  sensations ; 
that  he  merely  felt  me  shiver  a  bit.  He 
sprang  up  and  walked  away,  coming  back  in 
a  moment. 

*'  Christie,"  he  said,  standing  before  me,  a 
very  goodly,  gracious  figure  against  the 
framing  of  the  vines. 

"  Well  ?  "  I  responded  in,  I  dare  say,  a 
vague,  far-oflF  voice,  for  I  was  inopportune- 
ly thinking  of  Mr.  McAllister's  remark 
about  me,  made  so  long  ago  to  my  lady 
mother. 

Christie !  "  Devonexe  repeated,  calling 
me  back  to  the  present. 

Yes,  yes !  "  I  cry ; what  is  it  ?  " 
40 


and  Other  People 

"  Stand  up  here  by  me,  won't  you  ?  " 
I  stand  up,  but  not  by  him. 

Closer,  nearer !  " 
I  do  not  move. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  is  possible  that  you  will 
ever  come  to  me  of  your  own  accord,  or  for 
the  asking,  or  in  any  other  way  than  by  my 
taking  physical  hold  of  you  ?  "  he  says,  under 
his  breath,  and  with  really  quite  the  ring  of 
passion  in  his  liquid,  English  voice. 

It  is  a  temptation  to  me ;  of  that  there  is 
no  doubt.  It  would  be  pleasure  unalloyed 
to  take  a  step  and  throw  myself  into  his 
arms  and  rest  my  head  on  his  heart,  and 
listen  to  all  the  sweet  words  a  man  can  say 
to  a  pretty  woman  under  favoring  circum- 
stances ;  but  I  have  heard  that  playing  with 
even  false  fire  is  somewhat  dangerous,  so  I 
reply  as  I  move  away  and  into  the  house, 
"Probably  not." 

The  next  day  we  met  Cuthbert  Champlin 
just  as  we  were  going  into  the  Casino  to 
register. 

"  So  glad,"  he  effervesces  in  his  well-bred 
way,  taking  my  hand  in  both  his,  after  due 
presentation  to  Devonexe,  "  so  awfully  glad 
41 


The  New  Yorkers 


you're  here !  We're  getting  up  some  Hving 
pictures — don't  look  frightened  ! — for  the 
twenty-second  of  next  month — benefit  of 
the  hospital,  you  know — and  if  you  would?" 
— the  young  artist  looks  at  me  appealingly — 
"  it  would  just  double  our  receipts.  I  am 
to  pose  the  people,  and  you  shall  have  your 
pick  of  the  subjects.  Will  you  take  it  into 
consideration?  " 

While  Cuthbert  has  been  gazing  intently 
at  me,  emphasizing  his  plea  with  all  sorts  of 
eyebrow  excursions  and  pathetic  signs,  a 
woman  has  half-crossed  the  lobby  to  Dev- 
onexe,  and  Devonexe,  courteously  respon- 
sive, has  half-crossed  to  her. 

She  is  a  small,  rather  plump  woman,  fault- 
lessly gowned,  not  pretty  nor  even  vainly  at- 
tempting to  be;  she  is,  in  truth,  ugly,  with 
an  insignificant  nose,  full,  big  lips,  little  eyes 
like  a  pig's,  dark  hair  that  grows  badly,  and 
large  hands  and  feet.  Her  face  is  familiar 
to  me,  I  am  sure,  and  her  voice,  too,  as  she 
says : 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you  might  remember 
poor  Jim  Chater's  widow.    I  assure  you  she 
can  never  forget  your  goodness  to  her 
42 


and  Other  People 

out  there  in  India,  when  her  great  loss 
came."  A  whisk  of  linen  and  lace,  and  a 
sigh. 

To  be  sure,  she  was  my  old  school- 
mate, my  senior  by  five  years,  but  still  my 
schoolmate.  I  remember  she  married  a 
Captain  Chater,  R.A.,  and  went  out  to 
India. 

Devonexe  turns,  and  she  turns  to  me  also, 
with  both  hands  held  out  and  fond  kisses 
on  my  cheeks,  and  all  sorts  of  pretty  things 
to  say  anent  my  marriage,  and  my  fame,  and 
that. 

There  are  any  number  of  otherwise  well 
and  reasonably  conducted  persons  who, 
when  they  find  themselves  at  a  great  height, 
feel  an  ungovernable  impulse  to  jump  down. 
There  are  as  many  otherwise  rational  women 
who,  when  they  encounter  another  woman 
who  makes  them  shiver  as  a  snake  might 
do,  experience  the  unconquerable  desire  to 
handle  it  and  find  out  for  themselves  if  it  be 
indeed  poisonous  or  not. 

Your  husband  must  have  told  you ;  I 
suppose  he  tells  you  everything" — raising 
her  eyes  to  Devonexe,  who  seems  exploring 
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The  New  Yorkers 


her  countenance,  lost  in  a  brown  study,  and 
does  not  glance  responsive. 
Doesn't  he  ?  "  to  me. 
"  I  hope  not !  " 

**  Well,  I  must  then ;  at  least,"  looking 
down  coyly,  "  I  must  tell  you  of  his  good- 
ness to  me.  My  husband  was  in  your  hus- 
band's regiment,  and  after  his  death  " — an- 
other little  whisk  of  violet  perfume — no 
one  could  have  done  more  for  another  than 
Graydon — you  know  he  was  only  Lord 
Graydon  then — did  for  me.  I  can  never 
forget  it.  And  to  think  that  the  man  to 
whom  I  owe  so  much,  and  the  girl  whom  I 
loved  at  school,  should  meet  me  here,  now, 
man  and  wife !  How  small  this  world  is, 
after  all.  Will  you  let  me  come  and  see 
you?" 

Would  I  resist  that  soft  Httle  coo? 
Never. 

Cuthbert  resumed  his  pleadings  about  his 
pictures  as  I  sat  down  in  the  court. 

Lina  Chater  was  showing  Devonexe  a 
miniature  of  her  husband,  an  exquisite  thing 
she  had  just  had  done  by  the  famous 
Baronne  de  St.  Mart.  It  was  mounted  as  a 
44 


and  Other  People 

brooch  with  pearls  and  moonstones,  and 
worn  perpetually  on  her  bosom.  Devon- 
exe's  tall  head  was  bent  to  examine  it.  I 
was  watching  them  both. 

Lina  Chater  was  a  woman  of  the  world ; 
but  even  women  of  the  world  cannot  resist 
flying  the  triumph-flag  when  there  is  enough 
breeze  to  stir  it ;  her  manner  was  possessive, 
intimate,  as  of  one  to  another,  each  all-com- 
prehending. 

Another  tall  man  came  up  to  me  presently 
and  bowed  very  low,  tapping  Cuthbert  easily 
on  the  shoulder.  It  was  Jack  Bingham.  I 
put  out  my  hand.  Both  Mrs.  Chater  and 
Devonexe  happened  to  look  my  way  at  the 
moment,  and,  certes,  I  let  fly  my  pennon 
too. 

"  This  is  a  happiness,"  he  says  in  a 
low  tone,  looking  wistfully  at  the  seat  near 
me. 

Jack  may  take  it ;  he,  too,  has  seen  Lina 
Chater's  pretty  little  upturned  absorptive 
way  with  Devonexe. 

Cuthbert  saw  nothing;  he  was  one  of 
those  extremely  wide-awake,  progressive 
young  men  who  are  surprised  out  of  their 
45 


The  New  Yorkers 


lives  about  once  in  each  twenty-four  hours 
by  being  told  something  that  the  town  has 
known  for  a  week. 

Before  w^e  leave  the  Casino  that  morning 
I  have  asked  Mrs.  Chater  for  a  week  at  the 
Billows;  I  have  promised  Cuthbert  Cham- 
plin  to  pose  for  his  living  pictures,  and  I 
have  invited  Jack  Bingham  to  dine  with  us 
at  the  Country  Club  next  Wednesday  after 
the  yacht-race.  Needless,  perhaps,  to  say 
that  both  accepted. 

Mrs.  Chater  came  over  from  the  Aquid- 
neck,  where  she  had  been  stopping,  w'ith  a 
lot  of  luggage  and  no  maid,  in  time  for  five 
o'clock  tea,  which  I  always  had  served  on 
the  terrace  under  a  large  pink  and  white 
marquee,  and  as  I  vowed  myself  to  rose  color 
that  season,  much  as  young  French  girls, 
enamoured  of  Mariolatry  and  fresh  from 
convents,  are  voiice  an  bleu,  I  dare  say  I 
made  a  fairly  picturesque  effect  with  the 
vases  of  roses,  the  painted  pink  chairs  and 
tables,  pink  tea-cloth,  china,  and  glass,  with 
dishes  of  frozen  rose-leaves,  and  any  and  all 
sorts  of  rosy  confectionery. 

My  guest  seemed  to  know  everyone  who 
46 


and  Other  People 


came  in,  and  in  five  minutes  I  saw  that  she 
was  what  is  technically  called  "  a  popular 
woman,"  a  distinction  which  commonly  in- 
cludes either  nonentity,  or,  which  was  vast- 
ly true  in  this  case,  an  almost  alarming 
adaptability. 

For  myself,  I  should  esteem  it  an  insult 
to  be  called  a  popular  woman.  Who  would 
be  liked  by  everybody?  Surely  she  who 
can  whittle  herself  into  a  differently  shaped 
peg  every  half  hour,  thus  fitting  into  the 
moods  and  idiosyncrasies  of  everybody  else, 
can  have  little  good  of  herself,  or  else  she 
exists  only  as  clay  does,  to  be  impressed. 

I  had  poured  Jack  Bingham  a  cup  of  tea, 
which  he  was  holding  over  my  head  as  he 
leaned  on  the  back  of  my  chair. 

Is  Mrs.  —  er  —  Chater  your  house- 
guest  ? "  he  asks,  finally,  after  scanning 
the  lady's  animation  in  connection  with 
Devonexe's  bicycle  costume,  he  having  just 
spun  up. 

I  nod.  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  the  sur- 
prise included  in  Mr.  Bingham's  inquiry, 
but  I  have  no  mind  for  much  of  a  tete-a-tete 
with  him  just  now. 

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The  New  Yorkers 


**  Odd  little  person,"  I  say  in  answer,  as  I 
turn  my  head  away. 

"  Quite  so,"  he  responds ;  but  you  will 
find  that  she  generally  gets  even  with  every- 
thing and  everyone  in  the  end." 

I  knew  it  thoroughly.  I  was  just  as  posi- 
tive as  I  was  of  my  own  aliveness  at  that  mo- 
ment, that  Lina  Chater  would  in  some  way 
mar  my  life,  or  mar  whatever  there  was  left 
in  my  life  to  mar. 

But  I  only  laughed  as  I  saw  my  husband, 
a  magnificent  specimen  in  his  knickerbockers 
and  blouse,  explaining  to  her  the  mysteries 
of  the  latest  attachment  to  his  wheel. 

We  dined  a  qtiatre  delightfully.  The 
host  and  the  lady  occupied  themselves,  she 
leading,  with  most  pungent  reminiscences  of 
life  in  India ;  the  hostess  and  the  gentleman 
were  spasmodically  sympathetic  and  prin- 
cipally acoustic,  as  we  knew  only  so  much 
of  India  as  the  other  two  chose  to  impart. 

Mrs.  Chater  leaves  us  at  the  end  of  a 
week  and  two  days,  eflfusively,  and,  she 
vows,  indebted  to  me  and  the  Duke  for  ines- 
timable blessings. 

The  Subscription  Ball  comes  oflf  the  even- 
48 


and  Other  People 

ing  after  she  goes.  I  am  dressed  and  stand- 
ing in  the  Hbrary,  waiting  for  my  maid  to 
bring  me  my  wrap,  when  Devonexe  comes 
in  with  it  instead. 

I  thank  him  courteously  as  I  stand  in  the 
full  blaze  of  the  chain  of  globe-lights  over 
the  arch.  I  suppose  I  look  surpassingly  well 
in  my  pink  chiffon  spangled  with  moon- 
stones over  the  shimmering  white  satin,  with 
the  first  moonburst  ever  worn  by  any  woman 
crowning  my  smooth  turned-back  hair,  and 
with  strings  of  pearls  and  opals  on  my  neck, 
my  waist,  my  back,  shoulders,  and  arms. 

Devonexe  stood  still  a  moment  and  sur- 
veyed me;  I  surveyed  him.  He  was  a  su- 
perb-looking man  at  any  time,  and  even 
more  emphatically  so  in  evening  clothes. 

"  You  look  magnificently,"  he  says,  com- 
ing a  little  nearer  me. 

"  Thanks,"  I  answer  with  a  smile ;  "  any 
decent-looking  woman  could  with  such  ap- 
parel," and  I  lightly  touch  the  moonburst 
with  my  fan. 

"  The  apparel  is  not  what  I  am  talking 
of ! "  exclaims  my  husband,  impatiently. 
*'  I  mean  you,  your  eyes,  your  hair,  your 
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The  New  Yorkers 


mouth  and  throat,  and  neck,  and  arms,  and 
shoulders  !  "  He  bends  and  lays  his  lips  on 
one  of  them. 

I  start  away. 

"  Please  don't !  "  I  cry. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  following  me. 
The  carriage  is  waiting !  "  I  exclaim, 
turning  to  the  door. 

Let  it  wait/'  Devonexe  remarks,  thrust- 
ing his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  taking  a 
seat  on  the  edge  of  the  big  table. 

"  As  you  please."  I  sit  down  in  a  chair 
very  far  from  him. 

"  I  say,  Christie,"  he  says  in  a  common- 
place tone,  swinging  his  foot  back  and  forth 
nonchalantly,  but  with  an  odd,  wistful  ring 
to  his  speech,  what  do  you  suppose  I  mar- 
ried you  for,  anyway  ?  " 

It  was  brutal  and  unwomanly  even,  but 
you  must  not  forget  my  father  and  my 
grandfather  altogether,  and  also  the  minor 
fact  that  I  was  as  cruel  to  myself  as  to  him, 
as  I  answered  succinctly,  "  Money,  I  pre- 
sume." 

"  What !  "  Devonexe  jumps  from  his  seat 
as  if  he  had  been  shot. 

50 


and  Other  People 

"  Money !  "  he  ejaculates,  hoarsely,  stand- 
ing before  me  with  his  eyes  on  my  face. 

"  You  might  have  known  if  you  had  cared 
to,  that  I  have  a  great  deal  more  money 
even  than  you." 

I  elevate  my  eyebrows,  and  my  face 
flushes  with  such  a  joy  as  he  can  never  guess 
— joy  and  self-reproach  and  self-hatred 
that  I  had  done  him  so  contemptible  an  in- 
justice. 

"  Can't  you  think  of  any  other  reason  ?  " 
he  asks,  laying  his  hand  on  my  hair. 
I  shake  my  head. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you^  now — may  I  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  no !  "  cry  I,  springing  up  as  I 
suddenly  recall  that  there  are  reasons  suffi- 
cient why  men,  with  titles  like  this  man's 
to  be  perpetuated,  may  marry  almost  any 
woman. 

"  Why  not?  "  he  says.  Why  can  I  not 
say  it  in  words,  even  if  you  know  it,  as  you 
surely  must." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  whisper ;  "  I  know,  of 
course ;  now  let  us  go." 

"  Let  us  stop  at  home  for  once ;  can't 
we  ?  "  he  asks,  as  a  boy  might,  hovering  over 
51 


The  New  Yorkers 


me,  and  rolling  down  one  of  my  long  gloves 
from  my  arm. 

I  am  terrified  at  I  know  not  what — some- 
thing strange  and  new  in  his  manner.  I 
start  away  from  him  and  say,  "  I  would  not 
miss  the  Subscription  Ball  for  anything!" 
and  hook  my  wrap. 

Christie,  one  minute,"  catching  at  my 
ribbons. 

I  look  back  over  my  shoulder  at  him. 

Christie,  before  we  go,  would  you  mind 
telling  me  what  you  married  me  for?  " 

I  pause ;  I  laugh,  that  long  brilliant  laugh ; 
once  so  much  commended  by  the  presiding 
genius  of  Harrowden-Burleigh. 

For  the  title?  "  he  says,  half-shamedly, 
under  his  breath,  and  looking  down. 

No,"  I  answer,  "  not  for  that,  your 
Grace ;  because  Prince  Louis  of  Battenberg 
would  have  put  me  a  few  steps  nearer  a 
throne  than  you,  and  I  spared  him  the 
honor." 

I  laugh  on  ;  I  run  like  a  girl,  laughing,  out 
on  the  piazza,  across  the  terrace  to  the  porte 
cochcrc,  and  jump  in  the  carriage  pell-mell. 
Devonexe  follows  statelily  and  gathers  up 
52 


and  Other  People 

my  skirts  himself,  and  gets  in  and  sits  down 
opposite  me.  By  the  flare  of  the  Hghts  as 
we  drive  out  I  see  that  his  face  is  very  pale. 

It  does  not  regain  color  until  late  in  the 
evening,  when  Lina  Chater  is  talking  to  him 
as  she  fastens  his  hoiitonniere  in  his  coat ;  I 
suppose  it  had  been  falling  out. 

The  next  afternoon  she  comes  in  for  tea 
very  late ;  indeed,  five  minutes  after  her  ar- 
rival everyone  else  has  left,  and  we  are  sit- 
ting there  in  the  twilight  by  ourselves.  She 
has  on  a  white  gown  and  a  big  hat ;  her  hor- 
rible eyes  slant  around  queerly  under  the 
waving  white  feathers  and  tulle,  and  her 
voice  coos  on  ceaselessly  as  she  sits  down  on 
a  big  cushion  at  my  feet  and  makes  pretence 
of  sipping  tea. 

Devonexe  crosses  the  terrace,  smoking; 
he  lifts  his  cap  as  he  goes  on  down  the  path 
to  the  sea. 

"  How  gone  off  the  Duke  is  since  the  days 
when  I  knew  him  first !  "  she  sighs,  pen- 
sively. 

Indeed !  "  I  respond,  for  the  purpose  of 
being  audible,  not  being  in  the  least  inter- 
ested in  playing  an  active  part  in  the  "  some- 
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The  New  Yorkers 

thing  "  which  I  am  positive  is  about  to  be 
said  or  done  by  this  woman. 

There  are  such  states  of  being  wherein  we 
feel  the  rise  of  the  tide,  the  swell  of  the  turf 
beneath  our  very  feet ;  we  can  retreat,  we 
can  run  away,  we  can  avert,  but,  instead, 
we  sit  still  and  let  the  thing  come  on. 

Mrs.  Chater  cleared  her  throat  just  a  wee 
bit  (presumably  of  the  sugary  tea  she  hadn't 
been  drinking)  and  then  she  spoke. 

"  I  used  to  feel  so  sorry  for  him  in  those 
days — those  dear,  dead  days  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Himalayas,  with  the  flowers 
as  high  as  tree-tops,  and  the  birds  singing 
like  lutes  in  the  branches !  " 

I  had  quite  sufficient  sense  to  remember 
just  then  that  Mrs.  Chater  was  accounted,  I 
had  not  been  long  in  hearing,  the  best  news- 
paper-writer in  New  York ;  also  that  she 
had  given  lectures  on  literary  and  kindred 
subjects.  I  ought,  I  realized  too,  to  have 
asked  why  she  pitied  Devonexe  at  about 
that  time,  but  I  didn't ;  I  knew  she  would 
tell  me  all  in  good  season. 

You  know  all  the  sad  story,  I  suppose?  " 
she  glides  on,  fixing  her  porcine  eyes  on  my 
54 


and  Other  People 

face.  "  His  Grace  is  not  the  man  to  keep 
anything  from  the  woman  he  loves/' 

I  look  fixedly  at  the  blue  waves  curdling 
on  the  beach,  and  incidentally  at  the  top  of 
my  husband's  head,  from  which  he  has  lifted 
his  hat  to  enjoy  the  cool  off  yonder. 

I  don't  answer  her.  Why  should  I  ?  She 
doesn't  want  answers ;  few  women  do ;  she 
wants,  like  the  rest  of  her  sex,  to  talk. 

"  I  hardly  dared  to  hope,  then  " — catching 
a  glimpse  of  his  figure  also,  as  she  speaks, 
and  sighing  prettily — "  that  any  other  love 
or  hope  would  ever  come  into  his  life."  An- 
other sigh  and  a  covert  glance  at  my  im- 
passive face — a  covert  glance  that  at  once 
blossoms  into  the  frankest  and  most  child- 
like stare  as  she  sets  down  the  tea-cup  and 
seizes  both  my  hands  and  buries  her  awful 
little  fat  face  in  them,  and  laughs. 

"  You  dear,  sweet  child,  you !  What  can 
it  matter  to  you,  the  Duchess  of  Devonexe,  if 
long,  long  ago.  Lord  Graydon  loved  a 
woman  who  was  another  man's  wife  to  dis- 
traction, and  thought  he  could  not  live  with- 
out her !  " 

I  scream  if  a  caterpillar  comes  within  a 
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The  New  Yorkers 


foot  of  me,  but  had  all  Mrs.  Chater's  little 
wavy  forehead-locks  been  merely  masses  of 
caterpillars  (which  they  strongly  resem- 
bled), I  still  should  have  caressed  them  at 
this  moment,  and  should  have  smiled  down 
at  her  upturned  face  in  just  the  same  innocu- 
ous way. 

Not  that  either  of  us  deceived  the  other  or 
ourselves.  Women  seldom  do  at  crises  like 
these. 

**  Of  course,  he  has  never  told  you  her 
name,"  she  continues ;  "  he  is  too  thoroughly 
loyal  as  a  man  and  gentleman  to  do  that ;  I 
won't  either.  But  only  to  think  what  whirl- 
igigs time  makes  of  us  all — pour  me  some 
more  of  your  delicious  tea,  darling,  won't 
you  ? — that  woman^  Christie,  is  free  to-day, 
and  he  is  your  husband." 

The  last-named  individual  now  comes 
slowly  up  the  terrace  and  asks  for  tea,  too, 
while  Lina  Chater  rises  and  says  she  must 
go- 

I  say  No,"  as  I  ring  the  bell  and  order  a 
trap. 

I  could  not  think  of  allowing  you  to 
walk  down  alone  at  this  hour;  Devonexe 
S6 


and  Other  People 

will  drive  you  with  pleasure,  I  am  sure."  I 
glance  at  him  as  he  inclines  his  head,  and 
presently  I  see  them  off  together,  Devonexe 
dismissing  the  man  as  needless  for  a  ten 
minutes'  drive. 

A  ten  minutes'  drive !  " 

Well,  I  dare  say  my  mind  is  a  curious  one, 
but  I  breathe  more  freely  than  I  did.  I 
know  the  worst — at  least  I  think  I  do ;  and 
I  am  able,  with  a  quiet  smile  on  my  mouth, 
to  send  them  off  together. 

Bingham  came  in  for  dinner;  he  often 
did,  and  stopped  the  evening  through,  play- 
ing for  me  or  helping  to  amuse  my  guests  in 
his  usual  charming  fashion.  Each  day  after 
that  Devonexe  is  sure  to  oppose  any  and  all 
of  my  little  plans  for  visitors,  either  for  drive 
or  sail. 

He  avoids  Mrs.  Chater  distinctly  and  un- 
mistakably, which,  I  take  it,  is  manly  and 
honorable  in  him,  and  which  I  offset  to  the 
best  of  my  ability  by  being  as  distant  as 
is  possible  to  Bingham,  who,  in  turn,  con- 
trives to  be  at  my  side  nine-tenths  of  the 
time. 

Nobody  who  was  at  Monty  Everts'  dinner 
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The  New  Yorkers 


that  third  week  in  August  can  possibly  have 
forgotten  it.  It  was  the  crowning  effort  at 
entertaining  of  the  most  genial  bachelor  I 
know,  and  Nature,  in  one  of  her  most  be- 
nign moods,  favored  Monty  with  the  per- 
fectest  night  in  her  calendar  for  that  feast 
under  the  pink  pavilion  on  the  terrace  at 
Evertswood.  It  was  the  famous  three-to- 
one  dinner,  every  other  little  heart-shaped 
table  serving  three  women  and  one  man,  or 
three  men  and  one  woman. 

Lina  Chater  had  three  men,  which,  consid- 
ering her  well-known  occupation,  seemed 
strange  at  first  glance ;  but  when  one  really 
knew  Mrs.  Chater,  the  greater  cause  for 
astonishment  w^as  that  she  had  not  an  extra 
fellow  or  two  thrown  in  for  her  share. 

It  is  quite  true  that  a  certain  phase  of  so- 
ciety demands  inherently  the  possession  of 
money,  more  for  its  need's  sake  than  for  any 
special  reverence  in  which  gold  is  held ;  but 
it  is  quite  as  true  that,  given  a  woman  like 
this  one,  armed  at  all  points  and  fairly  brist- 
ling with  shot  and  shell — soft,  unctuous, 
yet  possessing  her  inalienable  attractions 
and  dowered  with  the  flexibility  of  the 
58 


and  Other  People 

adder  and  the  brain  of  a  MachiavelH,  and 
you  aHght  upon  an  ethical  anomaly  against 
which  you  are  powerless  to  combat,  even  if 
you  were  so  impolitic  as  to  wish  to. 

I  sat  at  my  host's  right ;  Cuthbert  Cham- 
plin  and  Count  Castella  were  the  other  two 
men.  Mrs.  Chater  was  just  behind  us,  and 
Devonexe,  with  three  of  the  prettiest  women 
in  Newport,  was  very  near. 

Cuthbert  spent  his  time  in  urging  upon 
me  most  of  the  subjects  so  far  chosen  for  the 
living  pictures,  but  none  of  them  struck  my 
fancy. 

"  You  will  do  none  of  all  these  ?  "  he  said 
at  last. 

I  shook  my  head.  Neither  Marguerite  de 
Valois,  nor  Madame  Recamier,  nor  yet 
Marie  Antoinette  appealed  to  my  imagina- 
tion in  connection  with  myself  at  all. 

Essentially  dramatic  women  such  as  I, 
need  something  other  than  beauty  or  sorrow 
to  fire  their  picturesque  possibilities. 

"  Fm  so  awfully  glad ! "  outburst  the 
young  artist  gleefully,  proceeding  in  answer 
to  the  surprised  inquiries  of  three  pairs  of 
eyes.  "  You  see,  I  want  you  to  do  my  Cleo- 
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The  New  Yorkers 


patra.  It  was  my  Salon  picture — you  may 
remember,  possibly?"  he  says  very  hum- 
bly considering  that  it  put  him  hors  concours 
— "  and  as  the  Duke  has  promised  to  pose 
for  Antony,  I  shall  die  happy  if  you  will  be 
Cleopatra." 

"  What's  that  ?  "  laughed  Devonexe,  good- 
humoredly.  Champlin,  did  I  promise?" 
looking  at  me.  "  A  man  feels  such  a  fool 
in  such  a  get  up." 

"  Consider  the  Cleopatra,"  observes  the 
Count,  recalling  no  doubt  the  appalling 
beauty  and  daring  of  the  Egyptian  in  Cuth- 
bert's  great  canvas. 

"  And  who  is  to  be  the  Cleopatra?  "  asks 
Devonexe,  evidently  not  having  heard  the 
artist's  proposition. 

"  The  Duchess,  I  hope,"  cries  Champlin, 
lifting  his  glass  of  Chablis  to  his  lips. 

"  Impossible !  "  my  husband  exclaims, 
with  the  deepest  frown  I  ever  saw  on  his 
face.  I  could  not  consent  to  it ;  at  least,  I 
would  say_,  I  trust  that  the  Duchess  will  de- 
cline the  honor." 

Cuthbert  flushes.  I  dare  say  at  that  par- 
ticular moment  he  wishes  he  had  painted  his 
60 


and  Other  People 

Sorceress  of  the  Nile  "  with  more  spend- 
thrift draperies. 

"  There  are  only  two  women  in  Newport 
who  could  pose  for  it,"  he  says,  quite  low — 

the  Duchess,  because,  begging  her  par- 
don, she  is  the  most  beautiful  woman  I  have 
ever  seen,  and  Mrs.  Chater,  because  she 
could  be  made  up  to  look  so !  " 

"Let  it  be  Mrs.  Chater,  then,  by  all 
means !  "  Devonexe  says,  so  emphatically 
that  Lina,  who  has  heard  every  word  of  it 
all,  must  now  needs  play  the  startled  fawn 
and  insist  on  knowing  why  her  name  is  taken 
in' vain. 

I  had  had  a  mind  to  do  the  Cleopatra ;  the 
splendid,  sumptuous  creature  with  her 
grand,  gorgeous,  pitiful,  broken-hearted 
pageant  of  a  life,  spoke  straight  to  me.  But 
since  my  husband  elected  so  decidedly  for 
the  other  woman,  I  withdrew  as  gracefully 
as  I  could  and  said  Fd  do  whatever  they 
liked. 

Driving  home  that  night  he  said,  in  a 
curious,  strained  voice,  just  breaking  the  si- 
lence before  we  reached  the  house : 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  be  abrupt,  Christie, 
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The  New  Yorkers 


about  those  infernal  tableaux  of  Champlin's, 
but  I  could  not  quite  smile  on  a  proposition 
for  my  wife  to  appear  in  that  sort  of  a  guise 
for  people  to  stare  at." 

I  make  no  reply ;  in  fact,  I  scarcely  hear 
what  he  says  just  now,  for  listening  to  the 
echo  in  my  heart  of  some  other  words  of  his : 
they  are, Let  it  be  Mrs.  Chater,  then,  by  all 
means !  " 

Of  course  it  was  Mrs.  Chater. 

All  through  the  heart-burnings  and  mask- 
ing smiles,  the  innumerable  jealousies,  and 
the  sufferings  inquisitional  of  the  hapless 
projector  of  the  living  pictures,  one  of  his 
fair  subjects  wavered  not  in  her  unflinching 
good-nature — Mrs.  Chater,  tireless  at  re- 
hearsals, indefatigable  as  right-hand  wom- 
an ;  faithful  in  teaching  Devonexe  every 
flex  of  his  eyelid  even,  as  she  studied  the 
photograph  of  Champlin's  famous  paint- 
ing ;  radiant,  overweening  in  her  supremacy 
and  her  joy^  yet  humble  as  the  slave,  to  the 
call  of  Antony's  eyes,  the  ugliest  little  woman 
of  her  day,  reigned  mirthfully  enough  for  a 
week  or  so  preceding  the  eventful  night. 

She  contrived,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how, 

a? 


and  Other  People 

to  dine  at  the  Billows  the  evening  of  the  226. ; 
certainly^  Jack  Bingham  was  there  too,  and 
Cuthbert  and  three  of  the  girls  who  were  to 
take  part. 

What's  the  matter  with  you,  dearest  ?  " 
she  cooed  to  me  as  we  sipped  our  coffee,  and 
she  lighted  her  cigarette  in  the  palm  court, 
the  men  Hngering  a  little  in  the  dining-room 
still,  but  their  voices  coming  to  us  through 
the  long,  open  windows. 

"  Nothing,  I  think,"  I  answer.    "  Why  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  but  lately  you  seem 
dispirited.  Is  not  the  Duchess  pale  these 
days  ? "  pursues  this  arch-percher  on  the 
pinnacle  of  her  pleasure,  turning  the  knife  in 
me,  and  her  eyes  to  Bingham  at  the  same 
moment,  as  he  emerges  from  the  dining- 
room. 

Bingham  is  up  to  the  second,  and  says  he 
never  saw  her  Grace  in  better  form. 

Oh,  you  don't  look  at  her  with  the  eyes 
of  love " — she  gives  us  an  infinitesimal 
pause,  there  occurring  a  silence  inside  at  the 
same  instant — "  Mr.  Bingham ;  and  I  do. 
I  insist  that  Christie,"  flashing  a  glance  at 
Jack's  extremely  red  face  and  knocking  the 

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The  New  Yorkers 


ash  from  her  cigarette,  is  not  well.  You 
need  to  use  a  bicycle,  dear,"  she  says,  assum- 
ing even  patronizing  airs  in  the  craze  of  her 
success. 

I  let  her.  I  smile  and  sit  still  as  the  other 
men  follow  Bingham  to  our  midst. 

"  Or,  you  should  golf,  or  go  in  for  tennis, 
sail  a  yacht — anything  to  bring  back  the  old 
splendid  color  to  your  cheeks,  n'est-ce  pas, 
milor?  "  tendering  Devonexe  a  light,  which 
he  takes  with  unresponsive  fingers. 

"  I  don't  go  in  for  anything,"  I  reply  very 
slowly  as  Bingham  fans  my  face,  thereby 
cooling  his  own,  I  suppose,  for  anything 
that  will  make  me  look  untidy,  frowsy,  hot, 
tired,  fagged — and  as  to  a  wheel — un- 
womanly ! " 

A  chorus  of  sighs  and  groans  from  the 
women  greets  this  simple  utterance. 

I  nod  my  head.  Yes,  unwomanly,  I  re- 
peat. The  mere  assumption  of  the  pose 
necessary  to  get  on  a  bicycle  does  not  belong 
to  us.  It  is  bifurcated,  and  we  are  supposed 
to  be  wearers  of  skirts,  at  least  while  visible 
to  the  eyes  of  men." 

"  There  it  is,  the  men — the  men !  always 
64 


and  Other  People 

the  men !  "  cries  Mrs.  Chater,  warm  with 
wine. 

"  Always,"  I  respond,  calmly.  "  The 
worst  man's  standard  for  woman  is  usually 
identical  with  the  best  woman's  standard  for 
herself ;  therefore,  it  seems  to  me,  we  should 
be  wise  in  our  generation  and  keep  men  al- 
ways in  mind." 

Devonexe  is  looking  fixedly  at  me  as  Lina 
Chater  laughs,  much  as  she  thinks  Cleopatra 
laughed,  I  dare  say. 

Not  to  be  didactic,"  I  continue,  as  coolly 
as  if  my  blood  were  not  surging  to  my  strick- 
en soul,  "  it  is  quite  a  strange  fact  that  the 
reverse  is  not  the  case ;  the  worst  woman's 
standard  for  man  is  generally  only  commen- 
surate with  her  own  practice.  Do,"  I  say  to 
Jack,  go  in  and  play  us  the  '  Tzigane  '  or 
anything,  until  the  traps  come  around." 

Mrs.  Chater  and  Devonexe  are  sixth  on 
the  programme;  Jack  Bingham  and  I,  in 
"  Les  Amusements  d'Hiver,"  are  seventh. 

Lina  had  asked  me  to  stand  at  the  wings 
and  see  how  she  "  did,"  so  nothing  loath  (be- 
ing that  way  made)  to  spill  poison  in  my 
own  veins,  I  said  I  would.    I  did. 

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The  New  Yorkers 


Cuthbert  Champlin's  Salon  picture  was  a 
marvellous  success  of  daring,  but  it  did  not 
approach  the  Cleopatra  "  for  the  Newport 
Hospital  Fund.  She  was  regally  beautiful, 
thanks  to  paints  and  dyes  and  powders.  It 
is  wonderful  what  a  genius  like  Cuthbert 
can  do  with  a  face  that  is  hideous,  if  he  is 
allowed. 

The  draperies,  star-spangled,  gemmed  at 
bosom,  waist,  and  shoulders ;  the  headdress 
glowing  with  jewels;  the  flesh  gleaming 
through  the  gauze,  more  revealing  in  its  film 
than  any  mere  blank  nudity ;  the  pose  inde- 
scribable in  its  appealing  imperialism;  the 
eyes  telling  their  all  to  the  eyes  of  Antony, 
as  he  stood  drinking  in  the  witchery  of  the 
Egyptian. 

I  saw  it  all,  and  then  I  drew  back  into  the 
close  shadow  of  the  piled-up  scenery  and 
properties. 

I  leaned  for  a  moment,  catching  my 
breath,  against  some  boards.  In  the  dark- 
ness I  heard  them  coming,  it  seemed  afar 
ofif,  and  their  voices  like  the  voices  in  one's 
dreams — hers  last,  articulate,  saying  as  they 
came: 

66 


and  Other  People 

"  Reginald,  I  have  always  loved  you,  al- 
ways; you  must  have  known  it.  Heaven 
help  me  to-night,  I  can  keep  it  back  no 
longer !  " 

And  then  they  passed  me  by,  Cleopatra's 
garments  swishing  on  my  feet,  Antony's 
whisper  lost  to  my  ears. 

Presently  I  heard  someone  calling  me  to 
come,  as  the  stage  was  waiting. 

You  remember  perhaps  the  picture  we 
made,  Jack  Bingham  and  I,  the  entrancing, 
bewildering  eyes  I  gave  him  as  I  glanced 
up  from  my  furs,  and  how  everybody  praised 
the  realism  of  his  answering  looks. 

Devonexe,  out  of  all  his  armor,  was 
watching  us  from  the  wings,  and  then  we 
went  home  together  quietly  and  decently 
enough  as  usual. 

I  sat  in  a  chair  the  rest  of  the  night  and 
made  up  my  mind ;  sometimes  not  as  easy  a 
thing  to  do  as  to  make  up  one's  face. 

Jack  came  over  in  the  morning  to  see  how 
I  was. 

He  looked  at  me.  I  suppose  he  had  never 
seen  me  appearing  quite  this  way  before,  for 
he  broke  down  utterly. 

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The  New  Yorkers 


"  Christie,  Christie,"  he  says,  "  I  have  al- 
ways loved  you,  love  you  better  now  than 
ever.  I  know  Fm  a  fool ;  there's  no  hope 
in  my  love ;  you're  not  the  sort  of  woman  to 
even  let  me  see  you  again.  I  left  America 
once  before  for  your  sake ;  Fm  going  again, 
but  before  I  go  I  had  to  say  it." 

"  Yes,"  I  answer,  slowly.  I  knew  it, 
but,"  laughing,  as  I  rise  and  put  out  my 
hand,  "  the  wrong  people  almost  always  love 
and  marry  here,  and  as  there  is  to  be  no  mar- 
rying at  all,  there,  why,  perhaps  annihilation 
isn't  so  bad  an  idea  after  all." 

He  stares  at  me,  but  he  is  clever,  and  I 
suppose  he  sees  that  I  am  not  thinking  very 
much  about  him,  or  his  love,  or  his  going 
away. 

I  am  thinking  solely  of  myself  and  of  my 
husband ;  how  best  to  efface  myself  and  set 
him  at  liberty  to  marry  the  woman  he  has 
loved,  I  suppose,  for  years. 

I  decided  upon  it  all  very  quickly.  I  take 
my  maid  and  go  to  New  York,  and  engage 
my  stateroom  and  sail  the  next  day  for 
Havre.  I  leave  behind  me  a  line  or  two, 
saying  that  I  have  decided  to  go,  and  hope  he 
68 


and  Other  People 


will  not  delay  in  seeking  happiness  by  the 
door  I  have  opened  to  him. 

I  am  in  my  berth  for  the  first  three  days 
out,  and  when  I  do  get  up  on  deck  the  first 
person  my  eyes  fall  upon  is  Mr.  Bingham. 

Well,  what  does  it  matter?  Very  little, 
after  all.  It  is  not  the  things  said  that  hurt 
the  soul,  but  the  things  done. 

Fate  put  us  together  there,  and  the  world, 
looking  on,  wove  its  own  story.  The  cable 
had  already  done  its  work  well,  for  when  we 
landed  at  Havre  the  Paris  edition  of  the 
Herald  told  me  how  I  had  eloped  with  Jack 
Bingham,  and  how  remarkably  effective  not 
only  "  Les  Amusements  d'Hiver  "  had  been, 
but  also  the  marvellous  fidelity  of  the  "  An- 
tony and  Cleopatra.'' 

I  read  it  all  line  by  line,  and  perhaps  I  am 
an  anomaly,  perhaps  I  am  commonplace — 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know — but  sitting  there  in 
the  dingy  hotel  room,  in  the  seaport  town  in 
France,  there  comes  to  my  soul  a  curious, 
fierce  joy  as  I  read  the  words  that  make  my 
husband's  path  so  much  the  easier  for  him. 
What  matter  if  I  know  them  to  be  false. 

It  is  good — yea,  altogether  untellably 

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sweet  and  precious — to  know  that  he  can  be 
happy,  will  be  happy,  even  if  I  cannot ;  it  is 
even  excellent  and  dear  to  me  to  know  that 
there  is  such  a  state  as  happiness  in  this 
world,  if  I  can  but  look  at  it  through  an- 
other's eyes. 

Where  are  you  going?  "  Bingham  ven- 
tures to  ask  me. 

To  Monte  Carlo,"  I  reply. 

I  am  going,  too,"  he  says. 

Very  well,"  I  answer,  noting,  but  not 
in  the  least  weighing,  the  eagerness  of  his 
face.  On  some  altars,  such  women  as  I, 
would  unhesitatingly  sacrifice  whole  heca- 
tombs of  hearts. 

I  reach  Monte  Carlo ;  he  follows  me  in 
twenty-four  hours.  I  have  written  my 
mother  and  begged  her  to  possess  her  soul 
in  patience,  that  all  is  perfectly  well  with  me, 
and  that  she  must  stay  in  Norway  and  not 
think  of  coming. 

Meantime,  with  nothing  to  divert  me  but 
the  newspapers,  and  their  daily  accounts  of 
me  and  of  Devonexe — these  last,  meagre 
suspicions  merely — and  a  long  interview  of 
a  most  ophidian,  discreet,  and  clever  charac- 
70 


and  Other  People 

ter  with  Mrs.  Chater  recorded  in  its  columns, 
I  naturally  take  to  the  gambling-table. 

Why  not?  With  Bingham  in  close  at- 
tendance, what  more  could  be  desired  in 
the  interests  of  divorce?  Nothing  that  I 
knew  of. 

By  the  second  Wednesday  night  of  my 
stay  I  had  exhausted  nearly  all  the  money  I 
had  with  me,  but  the  demon  had  me  in  his 
toils ;  the  blood  was  in  my  cheeks,  doubtless 
"  that  old  splendid  color  "  Lina  Chater  was 
so  anxious  for  me  to  recover.  Jack  leaned 
over  my  chair.  I  had  been  winning  up  to 
to-night,  but  now  everything  w^ent  against 
me;  I  had  staked  my  last  gold — and  lost. 
I  laughed  as  I  unclasped  the  bracelets  from 
my  arms  and  laid  them  down. 

I  felt  Bingham  lean  closer  over  me  and 
slip  his  purse  into  my  lap  as  he  whispered : 

Take  it,  Christie ;  what's  mine  is  yours 
always  now — and  as  soon  as  you'll  have  me 
I'm  yours  too.    Take  it." 

I  shake  my  head  and  smile  as  I  look  up  at 
him  and  push  back  the  purse. 

"  You're  losing  your  senses,"  I  whisper, 
flinging  down  my  brooch,  for  I  have  lost 
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the  other  trinkets  with  one  whirl  of  the 
wheel. 

And  then  a  tall  man  comes  into  the  room, 
a  tall  man  with  a  haggard  face ;  but  men 
with  haggard  faces  are  common  there,  and 
no  one  heeds  his  entrance.  I  dare  say,  if 
they  think  anything,  they  surmise  him  to  be 
some  acquaintance  of  mine,  for  he  crosses  to 
me  and  takes  my  hand  and  shakes  it,  and 
says,  "  Christie !  "  in  a  matter-of-fact  way, 
then  turns  to  Jack  and  shakes  hands  with 
him. 

"  How  are  you,  Bingham  ?  " 

The  lights  swim  around  before  my  eyes, 
the  croupier's  voice  sounds  like  the  drone  of 
a  tree-toad  in  my  ears,  the  music  of  the  band 
playing  somewhere  near  lulls  to  a  whisper, 
as  Devonexe  picks  up  my  brooch  and  throws 
down  money  in  its  stead,  some  way  taking 
Jack's  place  at  my  chair  as  he  speaks  to 
me. 

"  I  took  the  next  boat  that  sailed  after 
yours,  and  got  here  as  soon  as  I  could.  You 
are  very  weary.  Come,  let  us  go  home," 
putting  my  wrap  over  my  shoulders  as  I  lose 
the  gold  he  has  just  staked  for  me. 

72 


and  Other  People 

I  rise,  and  Devonexe,  and  I,  and  Jack 
Bingham  leave  the  gambHng-room  together. 

There  is  the  least  little  pause  on  the  es- 
planade when  the  Duke  says  to  Jack : 

You  must  dine  with  us  at  the  Anglais 
to-morrow  night,  Mr.  Bingham." 

And  Jack,  as  much  a  man  as  the  other,  an- 
swers : 

"  Thank  you,  I  will,"  as  he  lifts  his  hat 
and  stands  bareheaded  a  moment  in  the  gas- 
glare,  while  Devonexe  leads  me  to  a  waiting 
carriage. 

Hotel  des  Anglais,"  he  tells  the  coach- 
man. 

"  I  am  not  stopping  there,"  I  cry  with 
the  first  breath  I've  taken  since  I  beheld  him. 

"  I  know,"  he  returns,  quietly ;  "  but  I 
am." 

We  are  there  in  five  minutes.  I  tacitly 
follow  him  in  and  up  to  the  room  door ;  my 
maid  awaits  me  there ;  all  my  belongings  are 
set  out  in  their  places. 

"  Too  bad  I  couldn't  have  come  on  with 
you,"  he  says  casually,  while  Therese  takes 
my  cloak.      I  hope  you  were  able  to  settle 
the  matter  of  those  bonds  satisfactorily." 
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I  incline  my  head,  while  I  recall  some  of 
the  lessons  I  learned  at  Lady  Heathcote's. 

Therese  goes  presently,  as  Devonexe  tells 
her  that  I  shall  not  need  her  any  more  to- 
night. 

He  tosses  the  cigar  he  has  been  feigning 
to  light,  away,  and  comes  over  to  me  and 
kneels  down,  taking  the  little  note  from  his 
pocket  which  I  had  written  the  day  I  left 
him. 

"  My  child,"  my  husband  says,  with  eyes 
blood-dimmed  by  passion,  don't  you  know 
I  love  you,  only  you,  never  anyone  but  you, 
ever  ?  Don't  you  know,  a  fellow  can't  speak 
such  a  thing  save  at  such  a  moment  as  this? 
But  the  Chater  woman  was  fool  enough  to 
care  for  me  years  ago.  Happiness !  "  he 
cries,  crushing  the  scrap  of  paper  in  his 
hand.  You  are  my  happiness ;  you  are 
life,  God,  earth,  heaven,  all  to  me,  Christie !  " 
taking  me  in  his  arms. 

I  push  him  away. 

"  You  are  mad,"  I  whisper ;  "  see  what  I 
have  done — at  least  what  they  say  I've  done. 
Bingham  came  over  on  the  same  ship  with 


and  Other  People 

Devonexe  smiles  as  he  holds  my  face  be- 
tween his  palms. 

Christie,"  he  says,  "  I  wouldn't  believe 
the  Angel  of  the  Lord  if  he  told  me  you  had 
done  wrong.  I  know  you  have  not,  and  had 
you,  it  would  be  all  the  same ;  I  should  still 
be  a  beggar  at  your  lips  asking  for  your  love. 
Darling,  cannot  I  ever  hope  to  win  my 
own?" 

I  shake  my  head.  Some  of  us,  of  my  sex, 
you  see,  must  play  even  with  their  holy  of 
holies. 

Never  hope,"  I  say,  gathering  myself  to 
him  close,  "  because  there  is  no  need.  Reg- 
gie, I  married  you  only  because  I  loved  you 
as  much  as  I  am  capable  of  loving." 

Jack  Bingham  did  dine  with  us  the  next 
evening,  and  you'll  think  it  odd,  but  there 
was  friendship  in  those  two  men's  eyes  and 
hands,  when  they  bade  each  other  good- 
night and  good-by. 


75 


IN  CLINTON  PLACE 


\ 


IN  CLINTON  PLACE 


A  STORY  OF  LIFE  IN  MIDDLE 
NEW  YORK. 

A  quaint  corner,  sir? 

Aye,  marry,  and  a  bit  of  curious  comedy. 

On  the  north  side  of  Clinton  Place,  not 
too  far  from  Broadway,  there  is  a  row  of 
balconied  brick  houses,  the  balconies  hooded 
by  slantwise  roofs,  and  these  cumbered  with 
much  ornamental  iron-work. 

Some  of  the  houses  in  the  row  are  dingy, 
dirty,  forlorn,  and  thick-windowed ;  occa- 
sionally there  is  one  distinguished  from  its 
neighbors  by  the  absence  of  the  iron-fangled 
veranda,  with  its  darksome  hood,  which  has 
been  displaced  for  a  modern  vestibule,  with 
all  the  paraphernalia  of  brass  knobs,  hinges, 
and  escutcheons  on  its  outer  doors  of  swing- 
ing plate-glass — this  the  outcome  of  some 
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person  of  wealth  taking  up  his  abode  here 
in  deference  to  either  family  tradition  or  as- 
sociation. 

Yet  that  which  strikes  the  student  of  local 
color  hereabouts  is  neither  the  smartness  of 
the  rich  man's  abode  nor  the  supreme  dingi- 
ness  of  the  poor  one's,  but  the  cheerful,  and, 
so  to  speak,  breezy,  gayety  of  the  house  next 
to  the  last,  toward  the  west. 

The  old  portico  is  intact,  but  brightened 
by  blue  and  white  striped  awnings,  with  red 
scalloped  orders,  these  also  flapping  in  the 
June  air  at  all  the  thirteen  windows  of  its 
front.  The  stoop  and  sidewalk  are  clean; 
neat  muslin  curtains  flutter  in  and  out  under 
the  awnings ;  the  front  door  stands  open  in- 
vitingly; but,  as  one  enters,  one  may  read 
the  silver  side-sign  thus —  . 

Italian  Hotel, 
By  Giovanni  Mazzoleni. 
Restaurant. 

In  the  marbled  hallway  there  is  a  small 
desk,  accommodating  a  glass  case  full  of 
cigars,  from  the  five-cent  domestics  up  to  the 
quarter-of-a-dollar  Reinas ;  and  behind  the 
80 


and  Other  People 

desk  sits,  or  usually  stands,  the  excellent 
host  himself,  a  plump,  portentous  personage, 
with  a  commendably  ready  smile  and  a  posi- 
tive genius  for  the  superintendence  of  such 
dishes  as  macaroni  a  la  Napolitaine,  poidet 
a  la  Marengo,  and  omelette  sonfflee  a  la 
fromage. 

Across  the  hall  from  the  signor's  desk, 
spread  open  the  double  doors  of  the  dining- 
room,  with  its  array  of  small  tables,  shining 
glass  and  silver,  and  its  own  small  desk  at 
the  rear  end,  where  the  Signora  Mazzoleni 
receives  the  equivalent  for  breakfasts 
and  dinners,  makes  change,  and  with  two 
sharp  eyes,  keeps  the  four  waiters  up  to  the 
proper  pitch  of  civility  and  attention  to,  both 
the  regular  guests  of  the  house  and  to  such 
casual  persons  as,  lured  by  the  fame  of  her 
excellent  husband's  menus,  ^eek  the  comfort 
of  the  same. 

The  season  being  now  at  June,  and  the 
Exposition  having  depleted  the  usual  natural 
sources  of  Signor  Mazzoleni's  income  at  this 
time  of  the  year,  it  had  been  with  the  most 
accentuated  hospitality  that,  only  a  week 
ago,  he  and  his  ample  spouse  had  welcomed 
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The  New  Yorkers 


to  their  entire  second  floor  a  party  of 
three. 

The  hotel  register  displayed  these  to  be 
"  the  Professor  von  Bommelcamp,  Madame 
von  Bommelcamp,  and  Miss  Brown,  from 
Belgium." 

They  brought  with  them,  presumably  di- 
rect from  Belgium,  four  very  large  trunks, 
a  huge  packing-box  of  immense  weight,  a 
canary,  a  sewing-machine,  a  piano,  a  hamper 
of  books,  a  tall  lamp,  and  a  quantity  of  very 
striking  oil  paintings. 

The  cheer  and  warmth  that  this  array  of 
luggage  carried  to  the  unified  hearts  of  the 
Signor  and  the  Signora  Mazzoleni,  accus- 
tomed as  they  were  to  the  hand-satchel,  or, 
at  most,  the  valise  and  the  steamer-trunk, 
can  be  better  fancied  than  figured ;  and  not 
only  did  it  convey  a  thrill  of  delight  to  the 
master  and  mistress,  but  this  ecstasy  de- 
scended thence  to  the  four  waiters,  Bartolo, 
Niccolo,  Errico,  and  Franco;  to  the  cham- 
bermaid, Mary  Flynn ;  to  the  chef,  Master 
Cherubini;  and  to  the  dish-washer,  little 
Anuccia,  with  the  nut-brown  eyes,  that 
shone  even  in  the  grimy,  smoky  recesses  of 
82 


and  Other  People 

the  back  kitchen,  and  shone,  too,  through  the 
tears  that  welled  up  when  gravied  platters 
slipped  smashing  to  the  floor  through  her 
little,  brown  fingers,  thus  robbing  her  wages 
of  a  fine. 

It  may,  too,  be  asserted  with  truth  that 
if  the  arrival  at  the  Hotel  Mazzoleni  of  the 
Professor  von  Bommelcamp  and  his  party 
did  not  produce  a  corresponding  elation  of 
spirits  among  their  fellow-guests  with  that 
of  the  proprietor  of  this  excellent  little  hos- 
telry, it  certainly  caused  the  French  dancer 
and  his  wife,  on  the  third  floor  back,  some 
moments  of  curiosity  and  a  tremor  of  fear 
lest  this  unwonted  amount  of  belongings 
portended  a  fresh  rival  in  the  terpsichorean 
field ;  and  it  cannot  be  denied  that  it  evoked 
sighs  of  envy  from  the  Italian  banker's  wife 
and  daughter  in  the  third  floor  front,  albeit 
the  husband  and  father  of  these,  pooh- 
poohed  the  incursion  with  unflinching  zeal, 
and  early  in  the  engagement  pronounced  the 
Professor  von  Bommelcamp  nothing  if  not 
a  puff  of  wind. 

"  To-day  he  is  here,  yes ;  but  to-mor- 
row—    Eh,  well ;  we  shall  see  !  " 

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The  contortionist,  who  shared  his  apart- 
ment on  the  fourth  floor  with  a  gentleman  of 
the  orchestra,  had  no  opinion  to  offer,  until 
the  professor  nearly  took  his  breath  away 
one  morning,  by  inviting  him  to  a  cigar,  and 
thereafter  he  pronounced  him  "  a  gentleman 
right  through." 

The  shop-girls,  also  an  qtiatrieme,  voted 
the  professor,  "  real  elegant  "  from  the  start, 
a  species  of  encomium  superinduced,  it  is 
believed,  by  that  gentleman's  conciliatory 
habit  of  looking  at  them  in  a  respectfully  ad- 
miring do-it-if-I-dared  "  way,  as  they 
passed  him  going  in  or  out. 

What  the  young  man,  the  mysterious 
young  man,  also  harbored  on  the  top  story, 
thought  of  Professor  von  Bommelcamp 
none  of  his  fellow-boarders  knew.  He  had 
scanned  the  trio  in  that  unerring,  and  yet 
careless  fashion  which  marked  him  a  man  of 
the  world,  as  soon  as  they  had  appeared  in 
the  dining-room,  and  Bartolo,  who  had  once 
been  employed  in  the  chorus  of  the  opera  at 
Turin,  and  whose  ideals  were  quite  morbidly 
romantic,  had  not  failed  to  observe  that  the 
glances  of  Mr.  North — enjoying  the  sobri- 
84 


and  Other  People 

quet  of  The  Mysterious  One,"  because,  re- 
sisting both  the  ingenious  salHes  of  Signer 
Mazzoleni  and  the  blandishments  of  the  Sig- 
nora,  he  had  thus  far  preserved  intact  the 
sources  of  that  income  which  permitted  him 
to  pay  promptly  for  the  hospitalities  he  en- 
joyed beneath  (literally)  their  roof — that 
Mr.  North's  glances  then,  travelled  often 
and  interestedly  to  the  face  of  Miss  Brown. 

Miss  Brown  was  probably  nineteen ;  she 
was  tall,  and  white,  except  for  her  full,  pretty 
lips,  which  were  scarlet  with  young  and 
abounding  blood;  she  had  deep  gray  eyes 
and  dark-brown,  pretty  hair;  she  appeared 
nervous  and  constrained,  and  although  never 
failing  to  laugh  at  the  Professor's  jests,  she 
yet  did  not  conceal  (at  least  from  the  keen- 
eyed  Mr.  North)  a  certain  faint  curl  of  the 
upper  lip,  a  certain  curious  quiver  of  the 
white  eyelids,  when  the  amiable  Professor 
chanced  to  be  looking  into  his  well-filled 
plate. 

It  was  evident,  through  one  of  those  sub- 
tleties of  nature,  that  Miss  Brown  was  the 
younger  sister  of  Madame  von  Bommel- 
camp ;  although  perhaps  no  two  women  were 
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ever  made  more  dissimilar,  yet  the  same 
parentage  stood  revealed  in  each.  It  was 
something  like  this :  in  IMadame  von  Bom- 
melcamp  one  saw  all  the  possibilities  of  the 
lower  plane  of  both  sisters  in  full  play; 
while  in  Miss  Brown  it  seemed  as  if  the 
higher  part  stood  triumphant,  if  perhaps 
temporarily  hampered  by  circumstances,  in 
the  form — saving  his  plausible  presence — of 
the  excellent  Professor,  her  brother-in-law. 

This  gentleman, after  enduring  for  a  week 
the  scrutiny  of  the  public  dining-room,  de- 
cided that  a  move  in  another  direction  must 
be  taken,  and  for  reasons  of  his  own,  held  a 
conclave  with  the  Signor,  which  resulted  in 
a  more  aristocratic  seclusion  for  the  Pro- 
fessor's meals,  an  accession  of  income  for 
the  Signor,  and  an  added  sense  of  impor- 
tance in  the  eyes  of  the  onlookers,  which 
tended  not  a  little  to  the  Professor's  well- 
being  and  the  success  of  his  more  intimate 
affairs. 

The  extension,  hitherto  relegated  to  the 
use  of  Bartolo,  Niccolo,  Franco,  and  Errico 
in  seeking  such  repose  as  they  could  obtain 
amid  a  conglomeration  of  old  furniture,  old 
86 


and  Other  People 


clothes,  pots,  pans,  kettles,  papers,  and  gen- 
eral debris,  was  rescued  from  these  purposes, 
cleansed,  furbished,  and  its  many  windows 
made  to  shine,  while  the  wistaria  in  the  yard 
spread  curtains  of  shadow,  and  sent  dancing 
shiver  of  leaves  and  tendrils  all  over  the 
snowy  cloth  upon  the  Professor's  private 
table  as  it  awaited,  in  great  array  of  fancy 
folded  napkins,  piled-up  oranges  and  ba- 
nanas, cracked  ice,  and  lettuce  greenery,  the 
appearance  of  the  distinguished  boarders. 

The  Banker's  wife  and  daughter  mean- 
time caught  the  sound  of  arrested  carriage 
wheels  before  the  very  door,  and  flew,  the 
one  with  her  mouth  full  of  hairpins,  the 
other  clutching  a  shawl  over  the  airy  desha- 
bille of  a  late  June  afternoon,  to  the  win- 
dow, to  behold  an  open  landau  with  two 
sleek  horses  and  a  liveried  coachman,  stand- 
ing in  front  of  the  Hotel  Mazzoleni. 

Now  carriages  had  been  known  to  block 
this  path  ere  to-day,  but  they  had  always 
been  merely  sad-looking  one-horse  cabs, 
stuffed  with  miscellaneous  luggage  and  a 
traveller,  shabby  and  dusty,  struggling  with- 
in the  same,  as  he  m.astered,  or  was  mastered 
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The  New  Yorkers 


by,  the  combined  and  rather  irresistible 
forces  of  the  Enghsh  language  and  the 
American  cabman.  But  here  stood  a  veri- 
table pleasure  carriage,  and  in  it — nay,  now 
descending — was  the  Professor,  assisting 
Madame  von  Bommelcamp  to  alight,  and 
also  Miss  Brown. 
And  what  toilets ! 

The  Banker's  wife  and  daughter  heaved 
sighs  to  heaven  of  commingled  admiration 
and  despair,  as  they  watched  the  Professor's 
wife  flitting  airily  up  the  steps.  Madame 
von  Bommelcamp  was  indeed  admirable — 
lithe,  svelt,  of  the  age  of  twenty-eight,  per- 
haps, and  with  all  the  advantages  which  for- 
eign residence  can  confer. 

The  Banker's  wife  and  daughter  returned 
languidly  to  their  hair-pins  and  curling- 
tongs.  Not  for  them,  alas !  were  such  ex- 
travagances. The  Banker,  in  his  little  office 
in  Centre  Street,  it  is  true,  was  a  miniature 
lordling  of  finance  in  the  regards  of  his  fel- 
low-countrymen ;  but  with  eighteen  thou- 
sand dollars  of  capital,  even,  one  cannot 
drive  out  in  style,  dress  as  a  princess,  and 
indulge  in  the  private  dining-room. 

88 


and  Other  People 

When  this  estimable  lady  and  her  off- 
spring had  essayed  to  return  the  flattering 
notice  of  the  Professor  and  his  family,  the 
Banker  had  sworn  roundly  that  such  pro- 
ceedings must  at  once  be  discontinued,  and 
too  

Hark!  The  footstep  of  Niccolo  on  the 
staircase  along  the  corridor,  a  rap  upon  the 
door.  The  Banker's  daughter,  still  im- 
mersed in  the  protective  shawl,  peeps  out  to 
receive  from  her  compatriot  a  note,  scented, 
crested,  addressed  to  them  all. 

The  Banker's  wife  tears  it  open  just  as  the 
Banker  himself  comes  in  from  his  business. 
It  is  an  invitation  to  dinner  for  this  evening, 
for  the  Banker  and  "  his  honorable  family," 
from  the  Professor  and  Madame  von  Bom- 
melcamp. 

"  To  dinner,"  and  in  the  private  dining- 
room  !  Now  the  Banker  may  hang  his  head 
in  shame,  and  no  longer  say  wicked  things  of 
these  delightful  people. 

Which  is  true ;  the  Banker  confesses  that 
a  private  dinner  for  three,  at  the  Hotel 
Mazzoleni,  even,  is  not  a  matter  to  trifle 
with  the  pocket  of  the  host;  and,  after 
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The  New  Yorkers 


^11,  it  is  the  pocket  that  tells  always  the 
story.  Yes. 

Go?"  certainly. 

But  no.  It  cannot  be.  The  Banker's 
family  have  no  garments  fit  in  the  least  for 
such  a  festival. 

Notwithstanding  some  tears,  and  some  of 
those  domestic  infelicitations  not  uncommon 
under  similar  circumstances  in  the  families 
of  all  nations,  the  Banker  is  squeezed  into 
his  evening  clothes,  not  worn  since  last  Sep- 
tember, at  the  national  holiday  picnic  at 
Jones's  Wood,  his  gold  chain  is  stretched 
across  his  chest,  his  necktie  adjusted,  his 
gloves  and  hat  pressed  into  his  hand,  and  at 
the  hour  of  six-twenty-five,  watched  by  these 
proud  and  devoted  ladies,  he  descends  the 
flights  of  stairs  in  the  darkness,  to  emerge  at 
last  into  the  radiant  splendor  of  the  private 
dining-room  of  Professor  von  Bommelcamp. 

To  make  some  reasonable  excuse  for  his 
appearance  without  his  wife  and  daughter  is 
the  occupation  of  but  a  moment,  and  al- 
though accepted  by  Madame  von  Bommel- 
camp with  courtesy,  is  at  once  surmounted 
by  her  insistance  that,  so  long  as  the  ladies 
90 


and  Other  People 

are  to  be  at  home  this  evening,  they  must 
join  the  party  later  in  her  little  sitting-room. 

The  Banker  finds  himself  presently  at  the 
right  hand  of  his  hostess,  while  the  only 
other  guest  is  Mr.  North. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  the  Italian 
man  of  affairs  discovers  no  difficulties  of 
etiquette  in  thus  dining  with  comparative 
strangers,  or  in  accepting  hospitaHty  at  such 
short  notice.  Eleven  years  ago  the  Banker 
had  served  with  alacrity  and  good  sense  as  a 
waiter,  in  the  restaurant  kept  by  his  brother- 
in-law  in  Rome,  whence,  having  accumulat- 
ed two  hundred  dollars,  and  accompanied  by 
his  family,  he  emigrated  to  New  York  and 
presently  was  able,  through  a  lucky  adven- 
ture with  fruits,  to  set  up  as  a  financial  agent, 
and  anon  as  a  fully  fledged  banker,  among 
his  fellow-countrymen. 

The  Banker,  it  may  be  perceived,  was  not 
proud ;  on  the  contrary  he  was  fond  of  re- 
calling the  days  of  his  youth.  Indeed,  Fran- 
co, the  waiter  who  resembled  a  bandit,  had 
once  been  a  confrere  of  his,  and  his  place 
in  the  Hotel  Mazzoleni  had  been  secured  for 
him  on  his  arrival  in  America,  by  the  good 
offices  of  the  Banker. 

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The  New  Yorkers 


Franco,  in  addition  to  his  duties  in  the 
dining-room,  performed  the  menial  task  of 
poHshing  boots ;  and  in  this  capacity  he  had 
that  very  morning  come  in  contact  with  the 
Professor.  The  Professor,  always  friendly 
with  everyone,  had  entered  into  conversation 
with  Franco,  the  result  of  which  was  de- 
scribed by  Franco,  a  half  hour  later,  to  Nuc- 
cia,  sweeping  up  the  area,  while  he  sifted  the 
cinders,  as  follows: 

That,  as  the  Professor  had  indeed  been 
accustomed  to  dine  always  last  winter  in 
Rome  at  the  restaurant  of  the  Banker's 
brother-in-law,  who  was  a  very  dear  friend 
of  his ;  on  account  of  this  timely  discovery, 
the  Professor  that  very  day  would  invite  the 
Banker  and  his  family  to  dine  with  him  for 
the  inauguration  of  the  new  salle-a-rnanger. 

The  Professor's  version  of  these  facts  dif- 
fered slightly  from  that  of  Franco ;  for,  the 
door  once  tightly  closed  on  the  latter's  burly 
figure.  Professor  von  Bommelcamp  had  en- 
tered the  sitting-room,  and  standing  in  a  fa- 
vorite and  oratorical  attitude  between  the 
folding-doors,  had  said,  "  Peggy,  Fve  got  it 
at  last  I" 

92 


and  Other  People 


At  which  remark  Madame  von  Bommel- 
camp  and  her  sister,  Miss  Brown,  had  both 
looked  up,  the  one  from  picking  out  a  prize- 
puzzle,  the  other  from  a  book. 

Have  you,  John  ?  Well,"  queried  his 
wife,  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  The  bandit-waiter  has  just  told  me,  al- 
though I'll  wager  a  quarter  he'd  swear  I'd 
told  it  to  him,  that  our  interesting  acquaint- 
ance, the  Banker,  has  a  brother-in-law 
named  Allegretti,  who  keeps  a  restaurant  in 
Rome." 

The  Professor  at  this  point  executes  what 
may  be  termed  a  fandango  de  triomphe  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  bringing  up  on  one 
leg  with  a  thump,  and  with  a  joyous  wink  of 
his  left  eye. 

"  Peggy !  "  cries  he ;  "  Mary,  you  too,  my 
dear  " — this  to  Miss  Brown,  who  now  lays 
down  her  book  with  an  obedient,  if  resigned, 
air. 

"  Peggy,  do  not  forget  that  we  were  in 
Rome  last  winter ;  we  took  our  meals  at  the 
restaurant  of  Signor  Allegretti ;  we  were  his 
firm  friends;  we  owe  him  the  return  of 
many  courtesies,  which  it  will  be  our  pleas- 
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The  New  Yorkers 


lire  to  heap  upon  the  Banker  and  his  family ; 
we  will  have  them  down  to  dine  to-night 
and  tell  them  of  our  dear  excellent  friend, 
Signor  Allegretti,  in  Rome ;  they  will  ex- 
claim at  the  name ;  explanations  will  follow  ; 
good-fellowship  will  succeed ;  confidence  is 
begotten — and  leave  the  rest  to  me.  I  shall 
work  the  old  racket  with  possibly  a  few  vari- 
ations according  to  circumstances,  and  I 
think  will  be  in  for  at  least  ten  thousand !  " 

The  Professor  thrust  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  crossed  to  the  mantel,  where  he 
struck  a  match  and  lighted  a  cigar. 

Madame  von  Bommelcamp  laid  the  prize- 
puzzle  carefully  one  side,  and  surveyed  her 
lord. 

John,"  she  exclaimed,  "  how  clever  you 
are!" 

The  Professor  laughed;  he  was  used  to 
the  encomiums  of  his  wife ;  in  the  line  which 
he  pursued  he  really  deserved  them,  for  the 
Professor  was  a  genius,  on  the  wrong  track, 
but  still  a  genius. 

But,"  added  Madame  von  Bommelcamp, 
seriously,  "  I  must  confess  that  I  am  a  little 
in  doubt  as  to  that  Mr.  North." 

94 


and  Other  People 

"  Mary  must  clear  up  that  doubt,"  replies 
her  brother-in-law,  decisively.  "  What  have 
you  done  with  him,  Moll,  anyhow  ?  Who  is 
he?  What  is  he?  "  And  the  Professor  turns 
an  abrupt,  hard  face  toward  the  crimsoning 
girl. 

I  don't  know,"  she  falters. 

"  Time  you  did,  then,"  the  man  says, 
sharply.  "  I  hope  I  haven't  brought  you  up 
in  luxury,  shown  you  the  whole  of  Europe 
and  South  America,  taken  you  when  you 
were  a  child  of  nine,  right  out  of  the  jaws  of 
the  poor-house  up  there  in  South  Village, 
when  your  mother  and  father  died,  to  have 
you  turn  out  good  for  nothing  to  me  now  in 
my  profession !  " 

Miss  Brown  picked  up  her  volume  again, 
and  turned  the  cover  open  in  a  nervous  way. 

I  wish,"  she  said,  almost  under  her 
breath,  that  you  and  sister  Peggy  had 
given  me  an  education,  John;  and  then  I 
could  have  taken  care  of  myself,  and  not 
been  a  burden  to  you  like  I  am." 

The  Professor  whistled  a  long,  stiff  meas- 
ure. Madame  von  Bommelcamp  stuck  out 
her  foot,  and  gazed  admiringly  at  the  point- 
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The  New  Yorkers 


ed  patent-leather  toe  of  her  shoe.  The  Pro- 
fessor crossed  over  to  Miss  Brown,  stooped 
down,  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  don't  let  me  see  your 
Puritan  ancestors  cropping  out  in  you  again. 
Science  has  abolished  all  those  ridiculous 
prejudices  which  you  unfortunately  inherit. 
Society  has  taken  a  double  backward  somer- 
sault past  the  era  of  the  Pilgrim  fathers,  my 
child ;  and  '  might  is  right '  is  as  true  to-day 
as  it  was  in  the  Middle  Ages.  Bah !  "  cries 
the  man,  pitching  his  half-smoked  weed  into 
the  empty  grate.  "  My  forefathers  were 
Puritans,  too ;  my  father  tilled  his  own  soil, 
and  gave  me  a  college  education.  I  tried 
teaching,  and  starved ;  I  tried  clerking,  and 
froze;  I  tried  killing  myself,  and  the  mill- 
pond  wasn't  deep  enough  " — at  which  point 
the  Professor  was  uttering  a  truism,  the  ap- 
positeness  of  which  he  scarcely  dreamed. 

Then  I  tried  doing  what  I  could,  and  with 
my  knowledge  of  metals  and  chemicals — 
well  

Professor  von  Bommelcamp  now  took  an 
airy  turn,  with  sl  whisk  of  his  coat-skirts,  up 
the  room  and  down  again. 

96 


and  Other  People 

"  I  manage  to  keep  Peggy  and  you,  and 
myself,  in  sealskin  coats,  velvet  gowns,  and 
dinners  of  six  courses,  eh,  don't  I  ?  " 

Mary  Brown  nodded  her  head  slowly. 

Very  soon  after  they  went  to  drive  in  the 
open  landau,  and  the  dinner  presently  fol- 
lowed. 

During  the  progress  of  this  meal  it  fell 
out  as  the  Professor  had  planned,  and  by 
the  time  that  the  egg-plant  stuffed  with  to- 
matoes, onions,  macaroni,  and  cheese,  fresh 
from  the  very  hand  of  Signor  Mazzoleni 
himself,  was  quivering  on  the  forks  of  the 
company,  the  Banker  was  revelling  in  the 
delightful  knowledge  that  he  was  partaking 
of  the  still  more  delightful  hospitaHty  of  an 
old  and  valued  friend  of  his  estimable 
brother-in-law,  the  Signor  Allegretti  of 
Rome. 

What  reminiscences  were  indulged  in,  as 
the  Banker,  warm  and  rosy  through  his 
swarth,  with  copious  draughts  of  the  red 
wine  of  his  native  land,  and  the  Professor, 
ruddy  with  that  tense  of  excitement  induced 
by  the  successful  working  out  of  a  problem, 
talked  over  and  over  the  excellencies  of  the 
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The  New  Yorkers 


aforesaid  Signer  Allegretti  of  Rome,  and 
the  thoroughly  appetizing  quality  of  his  res- 
taurant !  How  deftly  the  Professor  extract- 
ed information  one  minute  to  serve  it  up  as 
personal  recollection  the  next,  was  not  even 
suspected  by  the  Banker,  but  it  is  possible 
that  Mr.  North,  being  observant  and  reti- 
cent, had  noticed  this  play  of  ingratiating  ac- 
quaintanceship. In  any  event,  he  kept  his 
ideas  to  himself,  and  devoted  his  eyes,  and 
whatever  conversation  he  had,  to  Miss 
Brown. 

When  at  last,  the  board  cleared,  save  for 
the  strewings  of  nut-shells,  the  demi-tasses, 
the  cheese,  and  the  cordials ;  when  the  Sig- 
nor,  and  even  also  the  Signora  Mazzoleni, 
stood  obsequiously  in  the  hall ;  when  Bar- 
tolo,  Niccolo,  Errico,  and  Franco  lingered  a 
bit  to  see  the  exit,  as  Professor  von  Bommel- 
camp,  with  a  tip  to  Franco,  ushered  out  the 
honored  guest,  on  whose  arm  now  hung 
Madame  von  Bommelcamp,  and  Mr.  North 
with  Miss  Brown  ;  when  all  the  gas-jets  save 
one  were  put  out  in  the  new  salle  d  manger; 
yet  above,  an  deuxieme,  what  gayety  there 
was! 

98 


and  Other  People 


The  ladies  from  the  third  floor — persuad- 
ed by  their  husband  and  father,  overflowing 
with  succulent  viands  and  sweeter  reminis- 
cences as  he  was,  into  making  it  a  matter  of 
fortunate  duty  to  don  their  best,  whatever  it 
was,  and  come  down — had  succumbed,  noth- 
ing loath,  to  the  prospect  of  this  taste  of  the 
social  Elysium. 

What  life !  What  mirth  !  The  heart  of 
the  Banker's  daughter  throbbed  with  excite- 
ment as  she  heard  the  tinkle  and  clatter  of 
the  piano,  the  shrill  shrieking  of  the  canary- 
bird,  the  voices,  the  laughter;  and  in  an- 
other second  she  and  her  mamma,  all  smiles, 
stood  in  the  midst  of  this  beautiful  whirl, 
with  the  Professor  bending  low  over  their 
hands,  with  the  pale  young  lady  saying 
pleasant  things  to  them,  with  the  tall  young 
gentleman  looking  at  them  with,  alas  !  those 
lovely  cold  eyes  of  his  that  shone,  thought 
the  Banker's  daughter,  like  the  stars,  and  at 
much  the  same  distance. 

The  Banker,  having  done  praising  the  ex- 
quisite playing  of  madame,  now  proposed  a 
game  of  cards — what  so  innocent,  so  de- 
lightful? What  said  the  dear  friends  of  his 
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The  New  Yorkers 


brother-in-law,  Signer  Allegretti  of  Rome, 
to  vingt-et-un  f 

Mr.  North,  sitting  quietly  near  the  two 
young  ladies,  without  moving  a  muscle  of 
his  head,  still  contrived  to  place  his  eyes  in 
proper  focus  for  taking  in  the  countenance 
of  the  host. 

It  was  calm  and  a  little  deprecatory. 

There  was  an  infinitesimal  pause,  and  then 
Madame  von  Bommelcamp  spoke. 

Dear  signor,"  she  said  to  the  Banker, 
"  you  must  not  be  offended,  but  my  husband 
— indeed,  both  of  us  are  New  Englanders. 
We  were  brought  up  very  strictly,  and  you 
will  forgive  us  I  am  sure,  but  we  never  play 
cards." 

Mr.  North's  eyes  fell,  and  the  Banker  was 
profuse  in  his  apologies,  and  the  gap  was 
immediately  filled  by  Madame  von  Bommel- 
camp with  a  lively  waltz  on  the  piano,  at- 
tended by  the  canary-bird  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

Why  should  the  young  people  not  enjoy  a 
little  dance? 

The  Banker's  daughter  flushed  at  the 
proposition,  but  Miss  Brown,  with  a  curi- 

lOO 


and  Other  People 

ously  haughty  manner,  at  once  found  the 
room  both  too  warm  and  too  small. 

"  I  only  wish  I  could  dance,  Signorina," 
said  the  Professor,  gazing  down  into  the 
rich-hued  face ;  but,  unfortunately,  my 
education  was  neglected  in  that  particular. 
I  was  brought  up  in  a  plain  way,  sir,"  turn- 
ing to  the  Banker. 

Yes,"  echoed  Madame,  "  we  are  plain 
people,  Signora,"  laying  a  jewelled  hand  on 
top  of  the  Banker's  wife's  plump  fingers.  "  I 
used  to  iron  my  husband's  shirts  while  he 
studied  and  read  in  the  long  winter  even- 
ings, when  he  was  preparing  for  his  great 
discoveries.  Ah !  you  do  not  know,"  contin- 
ued the  lady,  "  how  very  poor  we  were  in 
those  early  days.  I  did  all  the  work  of  our 
little  household  in  Vermont,  and  I  was 
proud  to  do  it !  " 

And  thus  how  easily  the  staircase  leading 
from  the  second  to  the  third  floor  was  swept 
away;  how  even  the  pleasure-carriage  and 
the  private  dining-room  vanished  beneath 
this  magical  stroke;  and  how  at  once 
there  arose  such  accentuated  friendliness 
in  the  hearts  of  the  Banker  and  his  fam- 

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The  New  Yorkers 


ily  toward  the  friends  of  the  relation  in 
Rome ! 

"  I  think,  Madame,  that  all  our  New  Eng- 
land women  are  proud  of  their  housewifely 
talents  ;  don't  you  ?  "  This  was  said  by  Mr. 
North,  who,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  not  a  little 
puzzled  at  this  juncture,  by  the  turn  of  the 
talk. 

Madame  von  Bommelcamp  opened  her 
mouth  to  answer,  but  she  was  not  allowed ; 
the  Professor  strode  across  to  Mr.  North 
and,  standing  before  him,  put  out  his  hand. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  I've  always  liked  you 
from  the  start ;  now  more  than  ever  since 
you  say  '  our  New  England.'  You  are  a 
New  England  man,  sir,  are  you  not  ?  " 
I  am,"  Mr.  North  says. 
So  am  I,"  cries  the  Professor,  shaking 
the  younger  man's  hand  warmly,  and  thence 
turning  to  fairly  beam  upon  the  assembled 
company. 

"  It  is  so  pleasant,"  continues  he,  while 
positive  tears  well  in  his  small  dark  eyes, 
only  to  be  brushed  away  with  a  remorseless 
handkerchief  of  the  finest  linen,  "  so  pleasant 
to  find  one's  self  among  friends." 

102 


and  Other  People 

The  Banker  and  his  family  both  applaud- 
ed this  remark  in  an  audible,  but  unsyllabled, 
murmur,  while  Mr.  North  pulls  down  his 
cuffs  and  glances  at  Miss  Brown. 

I  dare  say,"  continues  the  Professor, 
leaning  against  the  mantel  and  surveying 
the  group,  "  that  you  can  hardly  comprehend 
what  it  is  to — us — to  enjoy  this  taste  of  hon- 
est social  life,  away  from  the  frivolities  of  the 
outer  and  greater  world."  The  Professor 
says  these  last  words  modestly,  yet  in  a 
manner  calculated  to  impress,  but  not  to 
wound  the  sensibilities  of  those  of  his  hear- 
ers unfamiliar  with  more  riotous  scenes. 

"  You  can  hardly  imagine  what  this  even- 
ing is  to  me,  when  I  recall  the  years  of  my 
early  married  life,  the  hardships,  the  trials, 
the  privations — "  At  this  point  the  Banker 
mops  his  brow,  retrospecting  sympathetical- 
ly on  his  own  Roman  days,  and  the  attic  and 
macaroni  he  then  divided  with  the  eleven 
other  waiters  in  the  restaurant  of  his 
brother-in-law,  Signor  Allegretti — "  shared 
by  my  devoted  wife  without  one  murmur. 
Ah! — "  The  Professor  heaves  a  sigh, 
which  he  proceeds  to  smother  with  a  shrug 
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and  a  wave  of  the  hand.  I  will  not  dwell 
on  that  painful  time,  but  will  rather  recall 
its  end,  when  at  last,  after  months  and  years 
of  toil,  and  study,  and  experiment,  I  finally 
realized  the  dream  of  my  life,  and  thereafter 
was  able  to — pay  my  way  as  I  went,"  and 
the  Professor  broke  into  the  genial  laugh  of 
the  successful  man,  standing  on  the  hearth- 
stone which  he  himself  has  hewn  out  of  the 
bosom  of  a  perchance  reluctant  eafth. 

"  Won't  you  tell  us  about  your  invention. 
Professor?  "  asked  Mr.  North,  in  which  be- 
seechment  he  was  joined  in  chorus  by  all, 
save,  of  course,  Madame  and  Miss  Brown. 

The  Professor  dallied,  hung  back,  looked 
down. 

The  Banker  urged,  pleaded. 

Madame  von  Bommelcamp  at  last  said, 
John,  my  dear,  tell  our  friends ;  it  may 
interest  them.    He  is  so  modest,"  she  adds, 

and  so  fearful  of  boring  people." 

A  second  chorus  of  remonstrance  and  ad- 
miration, and  then  the  Professor,  with  that 
conciseness  and  fluency  which  had  many 
times  stood  him  in  precisely  similar  stead, 
spoke. 

104 


and  Other  People 


I  cannot  claim  to  have  made  an  inven- 
tion," with  a  gentle  inclination  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Mr.  North.  Mine  is  merely  a  dis- 
covery. I  am  only  a  very  ordinary  metal- 
lurgist ;  the  tools  of  my  trade  are  all  in  that 
big  box  yonder."  Professor  von  Bommel- 
camp  waves  a  white  hand  to  the  recess, 
where  the  packing-case  stands  deftly  draped 
with  a  camel's-hair  shawl. 

"  Woi^th  three  thousand  dollars,"  mur- 
murs Madame  sotto  voce,  and  yet  sufficient- 
ly loud  to  be  heard  by  the  Banker's  wife, 
who  thereat  pricks  up  her  ears. 

"  My  good  fortune  has  been  to  discover 
by  accident  one  of  Nature's  secrets,  and  that 
is,  that  ordinary  slag-iron  contains  a  very 
considerable  proportion  of  silver,  or  a  metal 
so  closely  resembling  silver,  as  to  have  de- 
ceived the  greatest  experts  in  Europe,  and  to 
have  stood  the  whole  list  of  genuine  silver 
tests.  How?  Ah,  that  is  known  to  but 
three  persons — myself,  my  wife,  and  my 
sister-in-law." 

Open  mouths  and  exclamations  of  won- 
der greet  the  revelation  of  the  man  of  sci- 
ence. 

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"  Permit  me/'  continues  the  Professor, 
taking  from  the  shelf  behind  him  an  exquis- 
ite goblet  of  chased  silver  and  presenting  it 
to  the  Banker's  wife;  "  Madame,  I  beg  of 
you  to  accept  this  little  souvenir  manufac- 
tured from  my  new  metal,  in  memory  of  a 
most  agreeable  evening." 

The  Banker's  wife,  the  Banker  himself, 
and  his  pretty  daughter  all  disclaim  their 
worthiness  of  such  a  princely  gift,  but  this 
reluctance  is  speedily  put  to  flight  by  Pro- 
fessor and  Madame  von  Bommelcamp. 

The  goblet  was  made  of  genuine  silver; 
the  Professor  always  travelled  with  one  of 
the  kind  amid  his  belongings. 

You  are  so  good  as  to  seem  interested," 
continued  the  host,  which  emboldens  me  to 
pursue  a  theme  of  which  I  never  tire.  My 
dear,  will  you  show  our  friends  those  photos 
which  the  King  and  Queen  of  Belgium  gave 
me?" 

Madame  von  Bommelcamp,  nothing  loath, 
displays  the  pictures  of  sovereignty  to  the 
admiring  gaze  of  the  three  guests,  and  then 
turning  them  over  she  points  to  the  inscrip- 
tion on  the  back  of  each. 

io6 


and  Other  People 
It  runs  this  way, 

"AM.  le  Baron  von  Bommelcamp 
de  son  ami  Leopold,  Roi  des  Beiges. 
Laeken,  ly  janvier  i8gi  " 

with  the  substitution,  on  the  Queen^s  por- 
trait, of  her  name  for  that  of  her  august  hus- 
band. 

They  had  been  bought  by  the  Professor 
for  a  franc  a  piece  in  Brussels,  and  duly  in- 
scribed, the  one  by  himself,  the  other  by 
Madame. 

"  '  Baron  '  von  Bommelcamp !  "  exclaims 
Mr.  North,  as  he  inspects  these  royal  treas- 
ures, while  the  Banker  and  his  family  are  so 
overcome  as  to  be  at  the  point  of  rising,  and 
bowing  and  courtesying  before  their  noble 
entertainers. 

"  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure ;  I  had  almost  for- 
gotten that  you  were  a  Baron,  John,"  cries 
Madame  lightly  to  her  spouse.  "  His  Maj- 
esty, the  King  of  Belgium,  conferred  the 
title  on  account  of  the  merit  of  the  discovery, 
but  my  husband  never  uses  it." 

"  No,  no,  no !  "  The  Professor  shakes  his 
head.  "  I  am  an  American  through  and 
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through.  Plain  '  Mr.'  will  do  well  enough 
for  us;  won't  it,  signor?  "  laughs  he,  clap- 
ping the  Banker  heartily  on  the  back. 

At  which  exhibition  of  good  feeling,  the 
amiable  man  and  his  family  experience  a 
subsidence  of  aw^e  and  an  increase  of 
ease. 

"  Too  modest,  too  modest  by  half !  "  says 
Mr.  North.  "  But,  pray  tell  me,  Baron," 
with  a  playful  little  smile  at  Miss  Brown, 
which,  as  she  feigns  not  to  see  it,  is  caught 
in  the  eclipse  by  the  Banker's  daughter  and 
treasured  in  her  dreams  that  night,  tell 
me  where  are  you  developing  this  wonderful 
discovery?  You  have  works,  doubtless;  a 
foundry,  manufactory,  something?  Be- 
cause, if  they  are  hereabouts,  I  want  permis- 
sion to  visit  the  place." 

"  At  present,"  the  Professor  replies,  the 
only  two — factories,  I  suppose  I  may  call 
them — are  one  at  the  village  of  Laeken,  just 
out  of  Brussels,  you  remember,  and  one  at 
Hull,  England." 

"  None  here !  "  exclaims  the  Banker,  ex- 
citedly. 

Er — not  yet,"  returns  the  Professor. 
io8 


and  Other  People 

'  **  Ah,  there  will  be,  then  ?  "  queries  Mr. 
North. 

The  Professor  thrusts  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  crosses  the  room  in  silence,  look- 
ing down  as  might  some  hero  newly  crowned 
with  laurel,  listening  to  the  plaudits  of  the 
crowd. 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  says  madame,  softly,  for 
John  never  would.  I  think  he  stands  in  his 
own  light,  because  he  never  will  talk  about 
his  business  in  social  circles.  The  truth  is 
— yes,  my  dear,  Fm  going  to  have  my  way 
for  once,"  this  to  the  Professor,  who  waves  a 
deprecatory,  not  to  say  forbidding,  five  fin- 
gers at  his  lady. 

"  The  truth  is  that  we  are  over  here  at  the 
express  invitation,  request  rather,  of  some 
of  the  most  influential  financiers  in  this  city, 
for  the  purpose  of  establishing  a  stock  com- 
pany for  the  development  of  the  new  metal, 
and  the  manufacture  of  all  sorts  of  articles 
from  it." 

"  My  dear,"  the  Professor  says,  taking  a 
seat,  give  us  some  more  music  and  stop 
talking  shop." 

"  I  won't !  There !  "  At  which  sally  the 
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The  New  Yorkers 


company  laugh,  and  eagerly  beg  the  hostess 
to  go  on. 

I  am  proud  of  his  success ;  I  wouldn't 
be  an  American  woman  if  I  were  not,  or  any 
woman  at  all  for  that  matter  !  And  only  to- 
day almost  the  last  of  the  stock  was  taken 
up  by  George  G  " 

"  My  love !  "  The  Professor's  cambric 
handkerchief  descends  upon  the  lips  of 
Madame,  just  in  time  not  to  prevent  the 
Banker  and  Mr.  North  from  understanding 
precisely  to  whom  she  referred. 

"  Business  is  business,  Peggy,  and  it  is  a 
breach  of  business  to  mention  names  yet 
awhile." 

"  Well,"  answers  Madame  a  trifle  abashed, 
"  I  didn't  mean  to  do  anything  wrong,  John." 

"  Is  there  any  of  that  stock  left  ?  "  in- 
quires the  Banker  jocularly,  and  yet  with 
the  sincerity  born  of  a  keen  eye  to  the  main 
chance. 

"  Yes,"  chimes  in  Mr.  North ;  "  because 
if  there  is.  Professor,  I  speak  for  a  slice !  " 

"  I  take  what  you  got !  "  cries  the  Banker, 
still  mirthfully,  but  with  decision.  "  I 
spoke  first." 

no 


and  Other  People 

Miss  Brown  at  this  moment  was  observed 
by  Mr.  North  to  move  uneasily  on  the  sofa, 
which  she  shared  with  the  Banker's  daugh- 
ter, to  rise  and  go  to  the  window,  and,  stoop- 
ing, to  lean  far  out  under  the  awning. 

With  an  irresistible  impulse  Mr.  North 
followed  her,  so  that  when  she  drew  in  again 
to  the  full  flare  of  the  gas-lights,  she  found 
him  beside  her. 

He  said  nothing — nor  did  she — but  their 
young  eyes  embraced  in  that  curious  timid, 
meek,  sweet,  wonderful  way  in  which  the 
eyes  of  Adam  and  Eve^  when  they  first  met, 
must  have  done. 

Meantime  the  Professor,  not  unmindful 
of  the  juvenile  episode  at  the  casement,  but 
putting  it  down  on  the  credit  side  of  his  own 
account,  now  spoke  slowly  and  with  weighty 
precision. 

"  No,  sir ;  no,  gentlemen,"  for  Mr.  North 
now  turns  toward  the  group  again,  as  does 
Miss  Brown  with  a  faint  rose  flush  on  her 
cheeks. 

No  friend  of  mine  shall  ever  purchase 
through  me  one  dollar's  worth  of  this  stock. 
I  value  my  friends  too  much  to  permit  them 
III 


The  New  Yorkers 


to  risk  a  cent  in  any  enterprise  of  mine,  the 
outcome  of  which  might,  by  a  ninety-ninth 
ill  chance  turn  out  adversely.    No,  no  " 

The  noble  earnestness  of  these  remarks  is 
productive  of  just  that  state  of  mind  in  his 
hearers,  to  which  the  discoverer  has  aspired. 

The  Banker,  being  unhampered  by  any 
more  absorbing  passion,  is  indeed  loud  and 
vehement  in  his  persuasions ;  while  the 
younger  man,  first  flushed  with  the  liquid  of 
Mary  Brown's  beautiful  eyes,  is  less  demon- 
strative and  more  willing  to  bide  his  time. 

"  But  I  insist,"  cries  the  excellent  brother- 
in-law  of  Signor  Allegretti,  of  Rome.  "  It 
is,  I  am  sure,  not  too  kind  to  deprive  those 
whom  you  honor  by  calling  friends,  of  the 
chances  of  making  their  fortune,  eh  ?  I  ap- 
peal to  Madame."  The  Banker  rises  and 
stands  before  his  hostess. 

He  could  not  have  appealed  to  a  better 
person. 

"  I  really  don't  see,  John,  why," — Ma- 
dame's  sentences  arc  liberally  punctuated  by 
impressive  waves  of  the  hand  and  shakes  of 
the  head  from  her  lord,  but  disregarding  his 
marital  signals  for  silence,  she  goes  on: 

112 


and  Other  People 

"  why  you  will  not  let  the  Signor  have  a  few 
of  those  remaining  shares.  The  shares  are 
a  hundred  dollars  each  only,  of  the  preferred 
stock,  and  how  many  are  there  left,  John?  " 

I  take  'em  all,"  says  the  Banker,  throw- 
ing a  glance  of  triumph  over  his  shoulder  to 
where  Mr.  North  is  surreptitiously  gazing 
at  Miss  Brown. 

The  Professor  shakes  his  head  resolutely. 

"  Oh,  pshaw !  "  exclaims  Madame,  rising 
and  opening  the  desk  opposite  her.  I 
can  easily  find  out  for  myself  if  you  want  to 
be  disagreeable;  and,"  she  adds,  mischiev- 
ously, if  I  make  the  sale  I  shall  claim  the 
commission." 

"  Certainly — of  course !"  cries  the  Banker, 
gleefully. 

"  Let  me  see."  Madame  von  Bommel- 
camp  runs  her  eye  down  the  foolscap  sheet, 
the  while  murmuring  to  herself  in  this 
wise : 

*  Russell  Sage,  fifty  shares  ;  Washing- 
ton Connor,  one  hundred;  C.  P.  Hunting- 
ton, two  hundred  ' — um."  As  her  index  fin- 
ger glides  the  length  of  the  page,  the  six 
Italian  eyes  watching  her,  the  six  Italian 
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The  New  Yorkers 


ears  listening  to  her,  the  three  Italian  mouths 
gaping  at  her,  all  afford  a  most  amusing 
panorama  for  the  Professor,  who,  with  his 
ten  finger-tips  balanced  against  each  other, 
gazes  benevolently  at  the  little  woman  who 
bears  his  name. 

"  Ah !  "  she  ejaculates.  "  Here  it  is.  I've 
found  out!  there  are  just  fifty  shares  left, 
Signor,"  and  Madame  lays  down  the  paper 
and  closes  the  desk. 

It  is  as  well,  for  had  quick,  inquisitive  eyes 
perused  the  page  that  hers  had  lately  trav- 
elled, they  might  have  found  the  list  of  the 
wreck's  washing,  a  somewhat  startling  key 
to  the  array  of  prominent  names  so  glibly 
reeled  off  by  this  most  adequate  lady. 

"  I  take  'em,"  says  the  Banker.  "  What 
you  say,  Professor,  eh  ?  " 

The  Professor  preserves  the  propinquity 
of  his  digits  and  slowly  shakes  his  head. 

The  Banker  draws  up  a  chair  and  seats 
himself  insinuatingly  close  to  his  host,  while 
his  family  watch  him  with  breathless  inter- 
est. 

To  their  excited  vision  pleasure  carriages, 
rich  gowns,  and  apartments  an  deuxicme 
114 


and  Other  People 

now  tremble  in  the  balance  of  the  great 
man's  dictum. 

Come,  I  tell  you,"  coaxes  the  Banker, 
"  if  you  go  on  to  be  so  obstinate  I  think  you 
are  a  Dutchman." 

"  You  think  that  on  account  of  my  name," 
the  Professor  blandly  replies.  But  really, 
von  Bommelcamp  isn't  my  name  at  all. 
No,"  responding  to  the  now  arrested  gaze  of 
Mr.  North. 

No,  my  name  is  Camp,  plain  John  Camp ; 
but  when  King  Leopold  desired  to  confer  a 
patent  of  nobility  on  me,  he  selected  the  name 
of  von  Bommelcamp,  after  having  caused 
the  clerks  of  the  royal  records  to  look  up  the 
ancestry  of  the  Camps ;  as  they  found  out 
that  my  Belgian  forefathers  were  so  called, 
and  out  of  deference  to  his  majesty  (who  is 
really  a  capital  fellow)  I  have  decided  to  re- 
tain the  amended  edition.  My  dear,  a  little 
music." 

"  Business  first,  pleasure  afterward," 
urges  the  Banker,  who  absolutely  sees  a  mil- 
lion slipping  through  his  fingers.  I  say, 
you  let  me  have  those  shares.  I  give  you  a 
premium  on  'em.  Come." 

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The  New  Yorkers 


Professor  von  Bommelcamp  rises,  and  so 
does  the  Banker.  He  lays  his  two  hands  af- 
fectionately upon  the  Banker's  shoulders 
and  gazes  into  the  Banker's  pudgy  counte- 
nance. 

My  dear  Signor,"  he  says,  if  you  are 
determined — well  " 

"  Aha  !  "  laughs  the  Banker. 

"  Aha  !  aha  !  "  echo  the  Banker's  family  as 
they  now  behold  the  pleasure  carriage  driv- 
ing up  to  the  door. 

"  Wait  a  moment — wait  a  moment,"  con- 
tinues the  host.  "  I  will  not  sell  you  a  dol- 
lar's worth  of  the  stock  until  you  have  seen 
the  experiment,  held  in  your  hands  the  proof 
of  my  discovery.  I  will  do  for  you  w^hat  I 
did  for  King  Leopold,  no  more,  no  less,  and 
then  if  you  feel  satisfied,  well  and  good." 

At  this  juncture,  while  the  Banker  and 
his  family  are  standing  before  the  Professor, 
there  runs,  inaptly  it  would  seem,  through 
the  brain  of  Mr.  North  something  that  he 
has  heard  about  the  Doge  of  Venice  wed- 
ding w^ith  the  Adriatic,"  but  repulsing  this 
base  mental  intrusion  with  ardor,  he  springs 
up  and  says : 

ii6 


and  Other  People 


"  Am  not  I  too,  Professor,  to  have  a  peep 
at  these  mysteries?  I  confess,  before  I  put 
my  money — the  Httle  I  have — into  the  thing, 
I  would  Hke  to  see  the  charm  work." 

I  thought  you  would,"  replied  the  Pro- 
fessor, quietly.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  that,  al- 
though a  young  man  " — He  glances  pater- 
nally at  Miss  Brown  as  he  speaks — You 
don't  lose  your  head  under  any  circum- 
stances. Certainly,  sir,  it  is  my  wish  that 
you,  and  the  Signora  and  the  Signorina, 
should  all  be  present.  I  will  arrange  the 
matter  with  Mazzoleni  in  some  way,  for  a 
fire." 

"  In  the  furnace,  John ;  you  remember  we 
had  a  fire  in  the  furnace  in  the  palace  at 
Paeken,  when  you  made  the  demonstration 
for  his  Majesty." 

"  In  the  furnace,  if  possible,"  assents  the 
Professor. 

And  now  " — he  speaks  impressively — 
"  there  is  one  thing  I  want  to  say  to  both  of 
you  gentlemen :  I  am  a  stranger  to  you,  a 
total  stranger ;  I  may  be  the  greatest  villain 
that  walks.  I  beg  that  each  of  you  will  pro- 
cure and  bring  his  own  specimen  of  slag-iron 
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The  New  Yorkers 


with  him  and  put  it  in  the  crucible  himself. 
Upon  this  /  insist/' 

The  Banker  and  his  family  are  taking 
their  enthusiastic  leave.  Mr.  North  turns 
to  say  good-night  to  Miss  Brown ;  she  has 
left  the  room  ;  she  left  it  when  her  esteemed 
brother-in-law  was  occupied  in  praising  the 
mental  equilibrium  of  Mr.  North. 


II 

The  third  floor  once  reached,  the  Banker 
and  his  wife  rushed  into  each  other's  arms 
as  they  had  not  before,  since  the  day  when 
the  letter  from  Rome  had  arrived  containing 
Signor  Allegretti's  draft  on  Brown  Brothers 
for  ten  thousand  dollars,  which  he  put  in  as 
special  partner  in  the  banking-house  of  his 
brother-in-law  in  New  York. 

Such  humility !  Such  simplicity !  One 
of  the  people  like  themselves,  yet  ennobled 
and  disdaining  the  honor.  Such  learning 
and  capacity !  Such  honorableness  and  up- 
rightness !  Ah !  how  happy  were  they  to 
have  been  so  favored  by  fortune  as  to  meet 
ii8 


and  Other  People 

such  people.  And  already  in  their  slumbers 
arose  visions  of  all  the  splendors  to  come. 

The  Banker,  the  next  morning,  albeit  a 
most  practical  and  shrewd  person,  was  no 
whit  emancipated  from  his  last  night's  con- 
viction. 

Like  many  another  clever  man  in  this 
world,  he  had  met  one  still  cleverer. 

And  then,  the  experiment.  Was  he  not  to 
see  with  his  own  eyes  the  reality  and  probity 
of  the  Professor's  discovery? 

In  the  rooms  underneath  the  worthy 
Banker's,  meantime,  the  satisfaction  of  the 
inmates — at  least  two  of  them — was  to  the 
full  as  great. 

Professor  von  Bommelcamp  had,  in  the 
course  of  his  somewhat  eventful  and  most 
checkered  career,  contrived  to  bring  himself 
into  very  successful  contact,  from  his  own 
peculiar  point  of  view,  with  a  baronet,  a 
knight  or  two,  a  Spanish  duke,  and  a  Belgian 
count,  whose  hobby  had  been  experiments  in 
metallurgy;  he  had  some  years  back,  also 
had  dealings  of  a  similar  character  with  half 
a  dozen  of  the  moneyed  men  of  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  as  many  more  in  Portland,  Me. ; 
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but  the  circle  in  which  he  now  revolved  was 
new  ground  to  him,  and  his  agreeable  pros- 
pects therein  caused  him,  as  well  as  his  un- 
tiring wife,  that  exultation  of  spirit  natural 
to  the  approaching  accomplishment  of  a 
cherished  scheme. 

It  was  now  about  half  after  five  in  the 
afternoon.  Madame  von  Bommelcamp  was 
very  busy  crocheting  some  little  woollen 
shoes  which  she  was  going  to  send  to  a  wee 
god-daughter  she  had  in  her  native  village, 
where,  it  is  necessary  to  state,  the  erratic 
career  of  John  Camp,  the  old  miller's  son, 
was  not  even — as  the  people  there  would 
have  called  it — suspicioned." 

Miss  Brown  sat  listless  and  idle  when  the 
Professor  sauntered  out  from  the  other 
room. 

"  I  say,  Moll,"  quoth  he,  seating  himself 
by  his  young  sister-in-law,  "  what  about 
North,  anyway  ?  It  seems  to  me  you're  not 
earning  your  salt  these  days." 

The  girl  flushed  painfully,  but  was  silent. 

"  I  tell  you,"  continues  the  metallurgist 
succinctly,  "  before  I  make  the  experiment, 
I've  got  to  know  whether  it's  worth  while  to 

I20 


and  Other  People 

risk  having  that  chap  present  or  not.  I've 
got  to  know  if  he  has  any  money  to  invest  or 
if  he  hasn't,  and  it's  your  duty  to  find  that 
out.  North's  hanging  about  the  hall  now ; 
I  saw  him  there  smoking  as  I  came  in  a  mo- 
ment ago.  Suppose,"  he  adds,  rising,  and 
yet  looking  attentively  at  the  girl,  you 
put  on  your  things  and  go  out  for  a  walk ; 
the  fresh  air  will  do  you  good.  North  will 
join  you,  and  when  you  come  back  I  shall 
expect  a  good  account  of  your  tactics." 

Professor  von  Bommelcamp  lights  his 
cigar,  while  Madame  lays  down  her  work 
and,  going  to  the  window,  remarks : 

"  Yes,  Moll,  run  along ;  there's  a  good 
girl.  North  is  interested  in  you ;  anyone 
can  see  that  with  half  an  eye,  and  he'll  tell 
you  all  we  want  to  know  in  ten  minutes. 
Oh !  "  exclaims  this  excellent  woman,  "  I 
had  almost  forgotten  my  dear  sparrows ; 
there  they  are  twittering  away  for  crumbs," 
and  Madame  proceeded  at  once  to  spread 
out  a  liberal  repast  from  her  store  of  bis- 
cuits, for  the  flock  of  little  gamins  that  flew 
sillward  at  her  call. 

Which  goes  to  prove  that  obliquity  of 

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moral  vision  does  not  totally  destroy  ele- 
mental kindliness  of  heart,  yet  renders  the 
spectacle  of  the  inconsistency  all  the  more 
appalling. 

Mary  Brown  had  said  nothing  to  these 
sallies.  She  went  into  her  own  room,  put  on 
her  hat  and  gloves,  and  came  back.  She 
uttered  a  "  good-by,  Peggy,"  as  she  passed 
out,  and  Peggy  called  out  blithely, 

"  Good  luck !  " 

Thus  cheered,  she  went  slowly  down  the 
staircase.  She  caught,  not  only  the  odor  of 
cigar-smoke  as  she  went,  for  that  was  the 
natural  atmosphere  of  the  Hotel  Mazzoleni, 
but  the  low,  soft  tones  as  well,  of  Mr. 
North's  voice. 

She  could  not,  would  not,  go  a  step 
farther.  She  turned  back,  her  whole  vir- 
ginal soul  revolting,  not  only  at  the  present 
instance,  but  at  the  entire  measure  and  sub- 
stance of  her  life. 

But  eleven  years  of  such  a  servitude  as 
hers  had  been,  are  apt  to  leave  their  stamp 
upon  the  disposition  at  least,  and  Mary 
Brown  was  afraid  to  turn  and  leave  her  er- 
rand unattempted. 

122 


and  Other  People 

So  she  went  straight  on,  and  out  the  open 
door,  without  looking  to  either  right  or  left. 

"  If,"  she  thought,  "  I  can  only  get  off  and 
away  without  his  seeing  me,  then  I  am  safe, 
and  still  I  shall  have  done  as  I  was  told,  in 
so  far  as  I  could." 

Which  sentiment  the  Pharisee  will  pass 
by  on  the  other  side,  while  the  Samaritan  will 
pour  upon  it  the  balm  of  his  oil  and  wine. 

Nevertheless  as  Peggy  and  her  lord, 
watchful  from  the  casement,  looked  down 
upon  the  street,  their  chagrin  at  Miss 
Brown's  solitude  was  swiftly  changed  to  joy 
as  they  beheld  Mr.  North  come  out  on  the 
stoop,  and  after  a  leisurely  survey  east  and 
west,  hastily  run  down,  throw  away  his 
weed,  and  anon  overtake  Miss  Brown  on  her 
way  toward  Fifth  Avenue. 

"  Miss  Brown,"  he  cried,  lifting  his  hat, 

will  you  let  me  join  you,  please?  " 

She  smiled  as  she  looked  up  at  him,  and 
with  that  smile  for  the  nonce,  flew  off  and 
away  entirely  all  memory  of  John  or  Peggy, 
experiments,  or  anything  else. 

The  August  sun  was  flooding  the  dirty 
street  with  a  yellow  glare.  The  handsomer 
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houses  were  shuttered  close,  their  tenants 
absent ;  while  the  poorer  ones  had  emptied 
their  human  contents  apparently,  on  the  side- 
walk. It  was  a  noisy,  screaming,  running, 
creeping  crowd  of  beings ;  a  parrot  shrieked 
out  a  collection  of  curses  from  his  cage  on  a 
veranda ;  two  rival  venders  of  peaches  rent 
the  humid  heavy  air  with  their  deafening 
shouts.  The  whiz  and  whir  of  the  Elevat- 
ed Road  went  on  its  ceaseless  way ;  a  be- 
lated ash-cart  plodded  along,  picking  up  the 
miscellaneous  boxes,  tin  cans,  barrels,  and 
coal-scuttles  full  of  refuse  on  the  block. 

Yet,  to  both  of  these  people  the  path 
seemed  strewn  with  flowers,  and  the  very  at- 
mosphere of  Paradise  itself  enveloped  them. 

They  sauntered  on  to  Washington  Square 
and  through  it,  and  a  bit  farther  westward, 
neither  heeding  much  where  their  footsteps 
tended ;  for  was  it  not  enough  that  they 
walked  there  side  by  side  ? 

"  I'm  nobody  in  particular  yet,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  hope  to  be  someone  some  day.  I  am 
living  at  the  Hotel  Mazzoleni  merely  for  the 
purpose  of  studying  local  color  in  the  inter- 
est of  a  play  I  am  writing.  Whether  the 
124 


and  Other  People 

play  makes  a  success  or  not/'  adds  Mr. 
North,  "  it  has  been  a  means  to  an  end  bet- 
ter than  any  I  could  have  foretold,  I  can  as- 
sure you." 

And  so  on  and  on,  relating  to  her  all  his 
history,  his  plans,  possessions,  projects  ;  con- 
scious, too,  of  exactly  what  he  is  doing,  and 
realizing  to  the  full  that  he  has  reached  that 
loveliest  of  all  a  man's  life's  crises — the  mo- 
ment when  he  meets  the  woman  whose 
"  yes  "  or  "  no  "  is  to  make  or  mar  the  best 
of  him. 

They  had  reached  St.  Joseph's  Church, 
and  they  both  glanced  up  to  the  battered 
statue  over  the  open  door. 

"  Suppose  we  go  in  for  a  few  minutes ; 
shall  we  ?  "  asks  he.  "  I  have  brought  you 
such  a  hot,  nasty  way,"  glancing  about  him 
in  a  kind  of  sudden  surprise  at  not  recogniz- 
ing the  precise  elements  of  Elysium  at  hand. 

If  you  like,"  she  answers,  putting  her 
foot  on  the  lowest  step,  and  adding  with  a 
rush  of  color  and  a  shamed  sense  of  honor 
and  dishonor  both,  as  the  facts  of  her  past 
and  the  courage  that  will  not  conceal  it  all, 
lays  hold  of  her,"  I  haven't  been  inside  of  a 
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The  New  Yorkers 


church  since  I  was  a  child  of  eight,  and  I'll 
be  twenty  next  month." 

I  haven't  been  inside  of  one,  well/*  he 
laughs,  since  the  last  wedding  I  attended, 
and  that  is  months  ago." 

They  pass  out  of  the  tawdry,  hot  street, 
with  its  rush  and  noisome  bustle,  into  the 
coolness,  the  space,  the  peace  of  the  old 
church. 

It  has  been  a  saint's  day,  and  the  four 
o'clock  vesper-service  has  left  its  fragrance 
of  incense  hovering  still  about  the  place. 

The  sexton  is  dozing  by  the  door,  which 
he  rouses  himself  to  close  as  they  enter. 

Six  candles  are  burning  on  the  altar,  and 
the  crimson  light  in  the  swinging  lamp 
glows  steadily. 

They  walk  up  the  aisle. 

"  Let  us  go  and  sit  down  in  one  of  those 
pews  near  the  altar  of  the  Virgin  Mary,"  he 
whispers  with  the  gentlest  little  pause  and 
emphasis  as  he  utters  the  name. 

If  you  like,"  she  answers  again. 

And  in  a  moment  they  are  sitting  side  by 
side  in  the  pew. 

An  old  woman,  past  eighty,  it  is  presuma- 
126 


and  Other  People 


ble,  kneels  before  the  statue ;  a  few  tiny  can- 
dles twinkle  in  the  little  candlesticks ;  a 
wreath  of  sickly  artificial  roses  lies  at  the 
Blessed  Mother's  feet,  and  a  garland  of 
false,  unlovely  lilies  decks  her  gilded  crown. 

Mary  Brown  stares  at  all  this,  noting  the 
old  woman's  moving  lips  and  withered  fin- 
gers tapping  off  her  beads,  and  instinctively 
she  slips  down  on  her  knees,  while  some- 
where out  of  the  lost  part  of  her  little  child- 
hood there  comes  back  the  memory  of  words 
like  these :  "  The  peace  of  God  which  pass- 
eth  all  understanding ; "  and  great  tears 
swell  in  her  eyes,  and  her  bowed  head  rests 
upon  her  close-clasped  hands. 

Eustace  North  is  looking  at  her  always. 

When  the  girl  fell  to  her  knees  he  knelt 
also,  and  when  he  saw  that  beautiful  light 
leap  into  her  eyes,  when  he  saw  her  head 
sink,  his  arm  went  around  her,  not  drawing 
her  to  him,  but  merely  telling  her  that  he  was 
hers. 

They  knelt  there,  alone  now,  for  the  old 
woman  had  finished  her  prayers  and  hobbled 
away,  leaving  the  church-door  ajar  as  she 
went ;  and  so  it  fell  out  that  there  came  to 
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these  two,  borne  from  afar,  the  popular  jin- 
gle of  the  hour  played  on  some  hurdy-gurdy 
way  down  Sixth  Avenue. 

It  reached  them  and  smote  them  both  as 
music  wandered  out  of  Heaven  for  awhile, 
and  fit  to  match  with  this  mood  of  theirs. 

She  moved  a  little  to  rise,  and  then  his 
hand  sought  and  drew  over  her  two;  and 
both  risen,  thus,  the  music  sounding  to  them 
most  perfectly  sweet,  they  walked  down  the 
aisle  together,  speechless,  and  back  again, 
like  ordinary  mortals,  to  the  Hotel  Mazzo- 
leni. 

"  Well!  "  cried  Madame  jubilantly, throw- 
ing open  the  door  for  her  returning  sister, 
whom  she  had  seen  approaching  with  her 
companion. 

Well,"  echoed  Miss  Brown,  coming  in 
and  sitting  down,  in  that  state  of  mind  which 
acknowledges  the  supreme  necessity  of  an 
immediate  victory  of  the  purely  practical, 
over  the  perfectly  incompatible. 

"  Has  he  got  any  money,  Mary,  or  hasn't 
he?    I  know  you  know,"  remarks  the  Pro- 
fessor calmly.    "  For  it  is  now  half  after 
seven ;  you  have  been  gone  two  hours,  and 
128 


and  Other  People 


Fm  sure  you  have  not  wasted  so  much  valu- 
able time." 

"  He  is  an  author,"  replies  the  girl,  in  a 
very  low  voice. 

"  Not  a  pecunious  race !  "  exclaims  Pro- 
fessor von  Bommelcamp,  with  a  disgusted 
expression.  "  Go  on,  though ;  perhaps  he's 
that  rare  specimen,  an  author  with  a  private 
fortune." 

He  has  fifteen  hundred  a  year  besides, 
and  he  owns  two  houses  in  Brookline,  just 
out  of  Boston." 

"  Oh,"  sniffs  Peggy,  "  John,  my  dear, 
we'd  best  let  him  off ;  he  might  spoil  every- 
thing, and  it  can  come  to  nothing  useful,  to 
have  him  present." 

I  don't  know  about  that,"  responds  her 
lord  ruminatingly. 

"  It  seems  to  me  perfect  folly  to  have  Mr. 
North  at  the  experiment,"  says  Miss  Brown, 
still  in  a  low  tone  and  with  downcast  eyes. 
"  He  has  no  money  to  invest  in  anything,  I 
am  sure,  from  what  he  said." 

"  That  may  be,  my  pretty  Moll ;  but  you 
see  he  may  come  in  handy  to  give  me  a  few 
good  letters  of  introduction  to  Boston  men, 
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The  New  Yorkers 


and  if  he  sees  the  thing  with  his  own  eyes, 
why !  he  can  say  so  to  his  friends.    See  ?  " 
Peggy  cries  out : 

"  That's  so,  John ;  you  are  always  the 
cleverest  of  us  three." 

Miss  Brown  flushes  and  rises,  going  into 
her  own  room. 

So  it  comes  about  that  on  the  eventful 
evening  Mr.  North  is  one  of  the  favored 
group  gathered  in  the  cellar  of  the  Hotel 
Mazzoleni. 

The  mise  en  scene  was  wonderfully  and 
broadly  picturesque;  the  more  so  from  the 
fact  that  picturesqueness  was  about  the 
last  element  that  anyone  there  had  in  his 
mind. 

The  cellar  of  the  Hotel  Mazzoleni  was 
much  like  other  cellars;  approached  by  a 
straight  flight  of  railless  wooden  steps  ;  dark, 
save  now  for  the  flood  of  white,  pure  light 
thrown  for  the  space  of  ten  feet  around 
the  furnace,  by  the  electric  lamp,  which  the 
Professor  had  obligingly  provided  with  his 
small  portable  battery. 

Bartolo,  it  is  true,  held  a  candle  aloft  in  a 
bottle  as  he  assisted  the  ladies  to  descend, 
130 


and  Other  People 

and  the  Signer  himself  stuck  another  in  an 
old  tin  can  and  set  it  on  the  swinging  shelf, 
where  it  threw  into  spasmodic  relief  an  ar- 
ray of  squashes,  sweet  potatoes,  cauliflowers, 
beets,  and  tomatoes. 

A  row  of  barrels  stood  yonder  near  where 
the  black  hills  of  coal  had  come  tumbling 
down  the  slide  from  the  sidewalk ;  some  old 
trunks  and  boxes  were  on  the  other  side,  and 
here,  in  the  radiance^  meeting  the  white 
wonder  of  the  electric  brilliancy,  with  its 
ruddy  glow  and  blaze,  stood  the  open  fur- 
nace fire. 

A  small  deal  table,  loaned  by  the  cook,  was 
littered  with  the  Professor's  implements ; 
crucibles,  pans,  tongs,  mortars,  pestles,  a 
tiny  white  packet ;  and  the  Professor  himself 
stood  there  in  his  brown  velveteen  smoking- 
jacket,  and  with  his  smoking-cap  set  jauntily 
on  his  brow. 

Madame  bustled  about,  active  and  merry- 
tongued  as  usual,  while  the  family  of  the 
Banker  sat  on  two  kitchen  chairs,  twisting 
their  fingers  in  much  awkwardness,  both  of 
flesh  and  spirit. 

Mr.  North  stood  near  Miss  Brown,  and 
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Miss  Brown  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the 
wooden  stairs. 

The  Banker  was  close  to  the  Professor, 
rubicund  satisfaction  blossoming  in  every 
line  of  his  Latin  countenance. 

"  There,  you  got  it !  "  cried  he,  taking 
from  his  pocket  a  gay  silken  kerchief,  tied 
up  in  a  manner  reminiscent  of  his  arrival  at 
Castle  Garden. 

I  got  a  friend  over  at  Stirling,  in  New 
Jersey,  who  runs  a  furnace  there,  to  send  me 
a  pound  of  his  slag ;  you  said  a  pound  was 
enough  ?  " 

"  Plenty,"  replies  the  Professor,  whose 
manner  is  that  of  the  sincere  and  absorbed 
scientist,  intent  only  on  the  performance  of 
a  duty. 

Plenty ;  besides,  I  have  here  Mr.  North's 
pound,  which  he  sent  up  to  Hudson  for. 
Now,  have  you  two  gentlemen  any  objec- 
tion to  the  two  specimens  of  slag  being 
mixed,  and  the  experiment  made  in  one  cru- 
cible?" 

Both  gentlemen  signified  the  utmost  will- 
ingness that  this  should  be  done. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  continues  the  metal- 
132 


and  Other  People 

lurgist.  ''Signor,  will  you  kindly  take  this 
iron  mortar  and  pestle  and  pulverize  your 
pound  of  slag?  Mr.  North,  will  you  be  so 
good  as  to  do  the  same  by  yours  ?  " 

The  two  men  go  at  their  task  with  a  wall, 
and  in  a  few  moments  it  is  accomplished. 

The  Professor  now  dismisses  the  Signor 
Mazzoleni  with  a  graceful  show  of  apprecia- 
tion of  his  having  provided  the  wherew^ithal 
of  fire  for  the  experiment,  thereby  causing 
those  of  the  boarders  (but  a  moiety  it  is 
true)  who  are  in  the  house  of  an  evening,  to 
enjoy  a  foretaste  of  their  possible  purga- 
tories, and  to  anathematize  at  the  same  per- 
spiring moment  both  the  Professor  and  his 
trade ;  but  the  Signor  ^lazzoleni,  beckoning 
to  Bartolo,  retires  in  that  good  order  which 
is  the  good-natured  forerunner  of  being  in  a 
position  to  put  it  all  in  the  bill. 

Now,  my  friends,"  said  the  man  of  sci- 
ence, turning  an  eye  apiece  upon  the  Banker 
and  Mr.  North,  will  you  do  me  the  favor 
to  select  your  crucible  from  these  three  upon 
the  table ;  pray  examine  them  thoroughly, 
inside  as  well  as  out." 

The  two  gentlemen  having  inspected  the 
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vessels  and  chosen  one,  it  is  indicated  to  the 
Professor. 

"  Very  well ;  I  will  now  explicitly  beg  that 
all  of  you,  the  ladies  as  well  as  the  gentle- 
men," with  a  sweeping  salutation  of  the  ut- 
most deference  toward  the  Signora  and  the 
Signorina,  "  will  give  me  your  undivided  at- 
tention; that  you  will,  in  short,  watch  my 
every  movement,"  laughs  the  Professor  ge- 
nially, much  as  if  I  were  Herrmann,  say, 
and  you  were  an  audience  not  to  be  taken 
in !  " 

This  lively  sally  is  met  with  an  outburst  of 
jovial  and  resounding  merriment. 

Examine  this  powder,"  continues  the 
metallurgist,  now  resuming  a  perfectly  pro- 
fessional air,  as  he  unfolds  the  packet  and 
discloses  a  few  grains  of  a  rose-pink  powder, 
handing  the  same  in  turn  to  the  Banker  and 
his  family,  and  to  Mr.  North.  You  per- 
ceive there  can  be  no  possible  jugglery  or 
hocus-pocus  about  this ;  no  metallic  sub- 
stance in  it ;  as  harmless  and  guiltless  of 
aught  save  vegetable  matter  as  a  lady's  toi- 
let-powder." 

Which  in  point  of  fact  is  precisely  what  it 
134 


and  Other  People 

was,  being  a  pinch  from  the  box  whence 
Madame,  when  pahid,  evoked  the  rose  of 
her  cheeks. 

Signor,  will  you  have  the  goodness  to 
put  your  portion  of  slag  into  the  crucible  you 
have  selected  ?  Mr.  North,  I  will  ask  a  simi- 
lar favor  of  you.  Ah,  so ;  now,  Signor,  will 
you  drop  the  powder  in  also  ?  Thank  you ; 
this  remarkable  powder  contains  my  secret, 
my  discovery;  by  its  peculiar  action  it  not 
only  produces  combustion,  thoroughly  ex- 
tracts the  silver,  or  whatever  the  new  metal 
is,  but  so  separates  the  particles  that  the 
residuum  will  lie  by  itself,  a  shinning  mass  at 
the  bottom  of  the  crucible  when  heat  has 
done  its  work, 

"  Look  for  yourselves,  gentlemen ;  assure 
yourselves  that  there  is  no  nonsense  here, 
only  the  result  of  years  " — the  Professor 
mops  his  moistened  brow  with  his  large  silk 
handkerchief,  the  rich  perfume  from  w^iich 
assails  the  senses  of  the  company  agreeably 
— of  toil,  research,  and  study.  Signor,  if 
you  will  place  the  crucible  upon  the  fire,  I 
think  that  in  a  very  short  time  the  demon- 
stration will  be  accomplished." 

135 


The  New  Yorkers 


The  Banker,  bearing  the  precious  burden 
much  as  if  it  had  been  a  newly  born  babe,  set 
it  on  the  Hving  coals,  and  then  with  a  sigh  of 
satisfaction  drew  back  in  the  neighborhood 
of  his  lady. 

"  How  much  silver  you  make  it  to  the 
pound  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  About  twenty  cents." 

"  What !  "  cries  North.  Our  fortunes 
are  made  then ;  why,  that  is  enormous !  " 

"  I  tell  you," — the  Banker  quivers  with 
excitement, — "  we  got  it  this  time,  my  dear." 

And  the  Signora  responsively  pats  the 
plump  be-ringed  hand  of  her  spouse. 

Miss  Brown,  seeming  to  find  the  place 
chilly,  for  all  the  furnace  fire,  had  by  this 
time  withdrawn  to  a  seat  on  the  grimy  lower 
step  of  the  stairs,  and  Eustace  North  had  fol- 
lowed her  naturally  and  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Her  head  was  bent  so  that  the  play 
of  the  electric  light,  the  furnace  glow,  and 
the  dipping  glimmer  of  the  candles,  all  three 
shone  about  her,  making  a  sort  of  curious 
aureole  around  the  beautiful  face. 

He  did  not  dare  look  at  her  always ;  so 
now  and  then  watched  the  Professor,  who 
136 


and  Other  People 


busily  strode  back  and  forth  watching  the 
crucible,  time-piece  in  hand,  and  ever  and 
anon,  as  he  bent  above  the  precious  cauldron, 
wiping  his  brow  with  his  fine  handkerchief. 

The  Signora  and  the  Signorina  kept  up  a 
queer  Httle  dialogue  in  their  native  tongue ; 
the  Banker  looked  on;  Madame,  full  of 
laughter,  quips,  jests,  slipped  in  and  out  of 
shadow  and  radiance,  doing  the  hostess  pret- 
tily, even  in  this  remarkable  entourage,  as 
was  possible ;  for  amid  the  Professor's  ham- 
mers and  tongs,  and  pots  and  whatever  else 
besides,  on  the  table,  Bartolo,  under  her  di- 
rections, had  placed  a  couple  of  decanters,  a 
bottle  labelled  Maraschino,  glasses,  and  a 
dish  of  little  cakes  and  biscuits. 

Madame  had  said  that  if  the  experiment 
proved  satisfactory  they  should  not  leave  the 
cellar  until  they  had  drunk  a  toast  to  its 
making  all  their  fortunes,  and  so  she  occu- 
pied herself  m  clinking  glasses,  taking  out 
stoppers,  and  partly  drawing  the  cork  of  the 
flask  of  cordial,  which  she  remarked  was  all 
she  herself  dared  to  touch  in  the  evening. 

The  Professor  had  just  announced,  after 
a  survey  of  the  crucible,  that  all  was  going 
137 


The  New  Yorkers 


well,  that  even  now  the  particles  of  slag  were 
beginning  to  separate ;  in  reality  he  still  bent 
over  the  fire  with  his  handkerchief  shading 
his  face  from  the  fierce  heat,  when  Madame 
shrieked  and  jumped,  screaming  out, 
"  A  rat !  a  rat !  " 

The  Signor  and  the  Signorina  shrieked 
also,  leaping  upon  their  chairs  with  much 
agility;  the  Banker,  catching  up  a  tongs, 
called. 

Where  ?  where  ?    I  get  him  !  " 

Miss  Brown  sat  still. 

Mr.  North, — never  after  could  he  explain 
why  or  wherefore, — did  not,  or  could  not  re- 
move his  gaze  from  the  Professor,  where  it 
had  been  riveted,  and  now  froze  as  he  beheld 
a  dexterous  twitch  of  the  silk  handkerchief, 
a  slip  of  sheen  in  the  glow,  a  twinkle  in  the 
bottom  of  the  crucible,  and  he  knew  that  a 
half  dollar  had  gone  in  to  join  the  slag  and 
the  pink  powder. 

Madame,  for  all  her  shrieks  and  jumps 
this  way  and  that,  while  the  Professor  beat 
the  air  with  his  tongs,  by  this  time,  saw  that 
Eustace  North  had  seen. 

She  screamed  the  louder,  running  hither 
138 


and  Other  People 

and  yon  in  pursuit  of  the  rat,  which,  it  is 
needless  to  chronicle,  existed  only  in  this 
lady's  executive  imagination. 

Well,  we  don't  get  him,"  cried  the 
Banker,  dropping  into  that  portion  of  a  chair 
not  encumbered  by  the  feet  of  his  wife. 

"  My  dear,  you  come  down ;  he  is  more 
afraid  than  we  !  " 

There  !  "  exclaims  Peggy.  "  There  he 
goes  under  the  stairs;  Mary,  get  up,  for 
goodness  sake ! " 

Mary  gets  up,  although  she  trembles  in 
every  muscle. 

"  Well,  my  love,"  says  the  Professor, 
"  now  that  you  have  roused  us  all  up  for 
nothing,"  a  little  reproachfully,  "  suppose," 
adjusting  his  tongs  to  the  crucible,  "  you  al- 
low me  to  say  that  the  experiment  is  com- 
pleted and  is — a  success — I  think." 

Mr.  North  is  a  bold,  brave  fellow,  honest 
as  the  sunshine ;  his  impulses  are  all  frank, 
outspoken,with  keen  hatred  of  the  least  de- 
ception or  trifling  with  truth,  or  toying  with 
honor ;  his  lips  part  to  speak,  to  denounce,  to 
expose  then  and  there,  but  he  remembers 
Mary  Brown,  and  is  silent  for  to-night. 
139 


The  New  Yorkers 


The  Banker  and  his  family  crowd  for- 
ward. 

The  crucible  is  lifted  from  the  fire,  the 
molten  contents  is  slowly  poured  out  into 
one  of  the  Professor's  pans,  and  there,  clear, 
shining,  and  white,  lies  the  spot  of  melted 
silver. 

A  cry  of  exultation,  delight,  amazement 
rises  from  the  Banker's  big  throat. 

"  I  say !  you  give  me  those  fifty  shares 
now,  eh  ?  "  pulling  out  his  long  leather  pock- 
et-book. I  take  'em  all,"  with  a  sharp 
glance  over  his  shoulder  at  North.  See,  I 
got  my  check  here  all  made  out ;  you  give 
*em  to  me  to-night,  and  you  take  this  to  the 
bank  of  the  Metropolis  to-morrow  at  ten 
o'clock  and  get  it  cashed,  eh  ?  " 

"  Sure  you're  perfectly  satisfied  ?  "  asks 
the  Professor  slowly  as  he  prods  the  white 
bit  with  a  pestle. 

"  Sure  I  live ! "  blusters  the  Italian. 
"  Say,  you  not  going  to  refuse  'em  to  me, 
are  you  ?  " 

No,  nO;  no,*'  laughs  the  other ;  "my  dear 
friend,"  laying  his  disengaged  hand  on  the 
Banker's  arm,     before  you  sleep  to-night 
140 


and  Other  People 


you  shall  have  the  stock  in  your  posses- 
sion." 

"  That's  a  bargain,"  and  they  shake  hands 
with  fervor. 

"  But  how  about  our  friend,  Mr.  North  ?  " 
queries  the  Professor. 

By  some  system  of  marital  telegraphy 
known  to  themselves,  as  the  Professor's  eye 
meets  Peggy's,  on  its  way  to  Mr.  North,  he 
comprehends  the  situation. 

Oh,"  answers  North,  I  suppose  Pm 
quite  out  of  it,  since  Madame  von  Bommel- 
camp  said  there  were  but  fifty  shares  left, 
and  the  Signor  has  taken  them  all !  " 

Very  sorry,  young  man,  but  business  is 
business,"  returns  the  Latin. 

"  It's  all  right,"  responds  Mr.  North,  and 
whatever  else  he  is  about  to  add  is  lost  in  the 
clatter  of  a  glass,  which  the  astute  Madame 
now  lets  fall  crashing  to  the  floor. 

The  Professor  runs  to  help  her  pick  up 
the  fragments,  and  as  their  bent  heads  ap- 
proach under  the  table  amid  the  talk  of  the 
others  she  whispers, 

"  North  knows." 

"  He'll  hold  his  tongue  for  Mary's  sake," 
141 


The  New  Yorkers 


says  the  husband,  laughing  loudly  at  the 
Banker's  last  joke. 

"  Until  morning  maybe,  no  longer ;  he 
must  have  the  drugged  wine,"  convulsed 
with  merriment  over  the  Banker's  wife's 
latest  remark. 

"  Make  Moll  give  it  to  him,  then,"  and 
Professor  von  Bommelcamp  emerges,  riot- 
ous with  smiles,  from  beneath  the  kitchen- 
table,  his  hands  full  of  broken  glass. 

"  Now !  "  exclaims  Peggy,  pouring  out 
brimful  glasses,  which  the  Banker  and  his 
family  all  accept,  nibbling,  too,  very  pleas- 
antly at  the  little  cakes. 

"  Mary,  dear,  a  glass  of  this  sherry  will  do 
you  good." 

Mary  Brown  puts  out  her  hand  and  takes 
the  glass. 

"  Mr.  North,"  archly,  and  removing  the 
cork  from  the  bottle  of  Maraschino  and  fill- 
ing two  glasses,  while  Miss  Brown's  large 
eyes  dilate  with  terror  watching  her,  "  Mr. 
North,  since  you  were  so  unlucky  as  not  to 
secure  any  of  the  spoils,  will  it  be  any  com- 
pensation at  all  to  you  to  share  my  cordial 
with  me  ?  I  never  can  take  wine  in  the  even- 
142 


and  Other  People 

ing  without  its  going  to  my  head,"  as  she 
tenders  a  glass  to  him. 

Mary's  hand  goes  out  a  little,  she  shud- 
ders, quivers,  draws  back ;  the  cellar  and  all 
it  contains  swim  before  her  eyes  as  Eustace 
North  answers  gayly  enough, 

"  More  than  a  compensation,  Madame ;  it 
is  a  pleasure,"  and  drains  the  cordial  to  the 
dregs. 

Peggy  also  raises  her  glass,  but  by  that 
unique  arbitration  of  Nature  which  dictates 
no  catastrophe  without  two  to  follow,  the 
third  in  the  dame's  list  comes  to  hand  as 
Madame  von  Bommelcamp  strikes  her  elbow 
against  the  Professor's  arm,  her  glass  falls, 
spills,  knocks  over  the  cordial-flask,  which  in 
its  turn  empties  its  trickling  contents  on  the 
floor  of  the  cellar. 

Exclamations  follow,  and  in  the  midst  of 
these  Mary  Brown  does  what  she  never  did 
before  in  her  life — she  faints  away;  the 
strain  has  snapped  her  nerves  asunder,  and 
the  Professor  picks  her  up  and  carries  her  to 
her  room,  while  Madame  and  the  rest  ascend 
in  his  wake,  an  exclaiming  and  pitying 
chorus  of  six. 

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The  New  Yorkers 


Eustace  North  haUs  with  the  others  an 
dciixicmc  and  then,  with  something  hke  a 
sigh,  he  goes  on,  having  tendered  his  formal 
hopes  for  Miss  Brown's  speedy  recovery, 
and  his  good-nights  to  her  relatives. 

He  is  beset  on  his  upward  course  by  a 
thousand  conflicting  emotions,  but  by  the 
time  that  his  eyrie  is  reached,  these  slip  off 
him  like  some  soft  and  enervating  garment ; 
all  dressed,  he  throws  himself  down  on  his 
bed,  and  even  while  he  plans  his  to-morrow, 
his  lids  close  and  a  stupor  of  sleep  overpow- 
ers his  mind  and  body  most  effectually. 

Not  so  on  the  floor  below ;  the  excellent 
Banker  hastens  to  his  box  of  papers,  fills  out 
his  check  for  five  thousand  dollars,  and  trips 
briskly  downstairs  with  it  to  the  Professor, 
receiving  in  return  for  the  same  not  only  the 
company's  receipt  by  its  secretary.  Professor 
von  Bommelcamp,  but  also  the  certificates  of 
his  fifty  shares  of  stock  in  the  American 
Slag-Iron  Silverite  Company,  of  Brussels 
and  New  York. 

Is  the  young  lady  better?  "  he  inquires, 
politely. 

Yes,  oh,  yes ;  the  young  lady  was  merely 
144 


and  Other  People 

temporarily  affected  by  the  dampness  of  the 
cellar,  and  is  now  perfectly  restored." 

Which  was  not  at  all  the  case.  Mary 
Brown  lay  on  her  bed  in  a  stupor,  far  more 
serious  in  its  present  aspect  than  Mr. 
North's.  While  her  body  remained  motion- 
less, her  mind  was  working  and  contorting 
with  all  the  possibilities,  and,  as  if  they  were 
not  bad  enough,  all  the  impossibilities,  too, 
of  her  situation. 

Peggy,  in  common  with  all  light-hearted 
mercurial  persons,  regarding  this  phase  as 
but  a  passing  cloud  on  the  horizon  she  as- 
sumed to  see  always  in  a  cerulean  light, 
speeded  the  Professor  as  he  took  his  cigar 
and  went  out  for  an  ostensible  smoke. 

The  Professor  did  smoke,  but  his  er- 
rand was  to  the  nearest  district-messenger 
office,  where  he  left  a  note  in  a  telegram  en- 
velope addressed  to  himself,  and  to  be  de- 
livered within  half  an  hour. 

Peggy  meantime  gave  Mary  a  shake 
which  roused  the  girl  a  little. 

"  See  here,  Moll,"  she  says  shortly,  "  you 
didn't,  or  you  did,  see,  I  don't  know  which, 
but  North  took  it  all  in  when  John  dropped 
145 


The  New  Yorkers 


the  half  dollar  in  the  crucible ;  but  I  settled 
him  with  the  cordial ;  that'll  close  his  mouth 
for  twenty-four  hours  anyway.  Meantime, 
we've  got  to  get  away ;  so  the  sooner  you 
can  rouse  yourself  and  pack  up  your  things 
the  better.  I  can't  stop  here  to  talk  with 
you.  You  know  that  well  enough  ;  it's  the 
same  game  as  it  was  in  Hull.  Be  good  now, 
and  dry  your  eyes  if  you're  crying;  there 
are  lots  of  handsomer  men  than  North,  and 
in  Australia,  where  we're  going,  you'll  pick 
up  another  twice  as  nice !  " 

With  which  sisterly  comforting,  Madame 
steps  into  the  next  room  and  goes  to  work. 

Mary  Brown  lies  still. 

She  does  not  think. 

Her  whole  being  simply  resolves  itself  into 
the  desperate  godly  exaltation  of  a  soul  that 
has  reached  the  point  where  its  tether  will  no 
longer  tighten,  and  it  must  either  break  or 
burst  the  bonds. 

She  can  formulate  no  plan. 

She  has  no  instinct  toward  her  preserva- 
tion and  his,  but  to  do  that,  which  most 
women  find  the  larger  share  of  their  inheri- 
tance,   be  still  and  wait." 

146 


and  Other  People 


The  Professor  now  returns. 
All  right,"  he  nods  to  Madame ;  how's 
Moll?" 

"  All  right,  too,"  responds  Madame  von 
Bommelcamp,  blithely ;  "  or  she  will  be  in 
the  morning.  I'll  put  up  her  things  myself, 
and  after  a  night's  sleep  she'll  be  as  bright  as 
a  dollar,  never  fear." 

Presently,  it  now  being  eleven  o'clock,  and 
the  doors  of  the  Hotel  Mazzoleni  closed,  the 
bell  rings.  Bartolo  stumbles  sleepily  to  an- 
swer the  call,  and  a  telegram  is  thrust  in, 
"  paid,  for  Professor  von  Bommelcamp." 

Bartolo  fetches  it  up,  the  Professor  hastily 
and  anxiously  tears  it  open,  Madame  peep- 
ing eagerly,  even  fearfully^  over  his  shoul- 
der, as  women  will  at  telegrams. 

The  Professor  utters  an  exclamation,  Ma- 
dame clutches  a  chair-back,  the  waiter  stares. 

"  Send  Signor  Mazzoleni  to  me  at  once." 

The  Signor  comes,  to  learn  that  the  aged 
father  of  the  Professor,  living  in  North  Vil- 
lage, Vermont,  is  at  the  point  of  death  ;  that 
his  guests  must  leave  for  their  paternal 
homestead  to-morrow  morning  at  half-past 
nine;  that  they  would  not  have  disturbed 
147 


The  New  Yorkers 


Signer  Mazzoleni  at  this  late  hour,  had  they 
not  been  a  Httle  in  arrears  for  board,  owing 
to  the  stringency  of  the  money-market,  and 
the  generally  bad  condition  of  the  whole 
financial  situation  on  account  of  the  silver 
question. 

Peggy  winked  playfully  to  her  lord  behind 
the  Signor's  broad  back  at  this  crisis  of 
words. 

They  wished  to  assure  him  that  they  left 
everything  they  owned  in  his  charge,  save  a 
couple  of  trunks  for  necessary  change  of 
clothes ;  that  they  retained  their  apartments, 
and  would  return  within  a  week,  unless  mat- 
ters were  worse  than  they  hoped  (here  a 
very  proper  pair  of  sighs  went  up  from  the 
admirable  pair) ;  that  they  had  arranged  to 
spend  the  coming  winter  at  the  Hotel  Maz- 
zoleni, where  they  had  ever  received  all  that 
guest  could  ask  of  home  comfort,  luxury, 
and  quiet. 

The  Signor,  deeply  deploring  the  depart- 
ure of  his  honored  guests,  more  profoundly 
sympathizing  with  the  cause  of  their  going, 
spared  no  lingual  endeavors  to  assure  them 
of  his  unbounded  confidence  in  their  excel- 
148 


and  Other  People 


lencies,  and  his  supreme  deHght  at  their  au- 
gust patronage,  and  so  bowed  himself  down 
to  compute  with  the  Signora  Mazzoleni  the 
amount  extra  to  be  made,  by  the  full  pay- 
ment for  rooms  and  board  during  the  ab- 
sence of  three  persons  from  the  Hotel  Maz- 
zoleni for  the  space  of  a  possible  fortnight. 


Ill 

The  next  morning  was  one  of  those  that 
sometimes  come  in  late  August — happy, 
splendid  harbingers  of  that  glorious,  full- 
fruitaged,  ripe,  glowing  season,  the  Ameri- 
can autumn.  There  was  hint  of  hoar  even 
in  the  early  air,  and  when  Mary  awoke  from 
a  heavy,  unresting  sleep,  the  breeze  blew 
fresh  and  cold  in  upon  her  under  the  awning 
from  the  north. 

She  got  up  and  dressed  when  Peggy 
called  her;  she  found  her  trunk  mostly 
packed,  and  she  finished  it,  locked  it,  and 
put  the  key  in  her  pocket.  She  put  on  her 
hat  as  her  sister  did,  took  her  coat  over  her 
arm,  her  umbrella  and  gloves  in  her  hand. 
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The  New  Yorkers 


They  went  down  to  breakfast  together 
and  sat  in  the  private  dining-room,  where 
not  only  Bartolo,  but  the  other  three,  skipped 
nimbly  in  and  out  waiting  upon  them.  At 
this  hour  there  chanced  no  one  else  in  the 
outer  room. 

But  Miss  Brown  could  not  eat ;  she  rose 
and  said  to  them, 

'*  I  will  go  out  and  stand  on  the  stoop ;  it 
is  so  close  in  here." 

They  both  nodded  and  she  went. 

When  she  reached  the  stoop  she  stood  still 
a  moment,  and  then,  a  force  impelling  her 
against  which  she  did  not  wish  to  battle,  she 
went  down  the  steps,  and  with  a  little  guilty- 
seeming  glance  around  her,  sped  westward 
as  fast  as  she  could. 

Reaching  the  square,  Mary  Brown  fairly 
flew,  and  then  presently  stopped,  panting,  in 
front  of  St.  Joseph's  Church.  The  door  was 
open  and  a  stream  of  people  came  out ; 
among  them  she  slipped  in,  and  in  a  moment 
more  she  was  in  the  pew  near  the  statue  of 
the  Blessed  Virgin,  where  a  fortnight  ago 
Eustace  North  and  she  had  knelt  together. 

She  sank  down. 

150 


and  Other  People 


Sanctuary  had  been  sought  and  found. 
To  her  it  seemed  now  that  harm  could  not 
reach  her. 

Two  hundred  years  and  more  ago  Miss 
Brown's  ancestors  had  fallen  on  their  knees 
on  the  bare,  blear  coldness  of  Plymouth 
Rock,  with  just  the  same  thankful  simplicity 
in  their  souls  that  now  moved  hers,  in  what 
they  would  have  called  this  Popish  place. 

The  spirit  of  those  wonderful  old  God- 
fearers  possessed  her  to-day ;  it  was  as  if  a 
naked  sword  cleft  her  in  twain,  and  albeit 
the  soul  bled,  and  the  bruise  was  bitter,  yet 
the  sharpness  of  it  all  and  the  terror  of  it  all, 
and  the  wrench,  brought  balm  and  right- 
eousness and  amends  in  part,  for  the  cruel 
sinning  of  her  past. 

Up  from  the  gone  gladness  of  her  child- 
hood at  her  mother's  knees,  rose  the  words 
of  broken  prayers ;  the  memories  of  Httle 
days  full  of  household  life,  and  long  nights 
full  of  rest,  and  mother  hands  to  heal  and 
bless ;  and,  Puritan-bred  though  she  was, 
she  lifted  her  eyes  and  they  met  in  speech- 
less peace  the  figured  eyes  of  Christ's  moth- 
er holding  Him  there  in  her  arms. 
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The  New  Yorkers 


And  the  horror  of  all  the  past  ten  years 
seemed  to  roll  away  from  her,  leaving  only 
terror  for  Eustace  North  in  her  heart  of 
hearts,  to  be  met  as  God  willed. 

Her  lips  parted  and  she  murmured  inartic- 
ulately, crouching  in  the  pew. 

Back  in  the  Hotel  Mazzoleni  meanwhile 
there  arose  something  of  a  commotion  when 
the  coach — a  pleasure  carriage  to  the  last,  as 
the  Banker's  wife  and  daughter,  hieing  them 
to  the  window,  half-dressed,  failed  not  to 
note — clattering  up  to  the  door,  the  two 
trunks  haled  down  and  strapped  securely  on 
beside  the  driver,  the  Signor  and  the  Signora 
salaaming  under  the  awning,  Bartolo  at  the 
curb,  handbags  in  arms,  Niccolo,  Errico,  and 
Franco,  expectantly  modest,  in  line  in  the 
hallway,  Miss  Brown  could  not  be  found. 

Search  as  all  might,  from  garret  to  cellar, 
the  girl  was  nowhere,  nor  had  anyone  seen 
her  leave  the  house. 

The  Professor  pulled  out  his  watch  and 
held  a  short  whispered  conversation  with 
Madame. 

Tm  afraid,"  he  says,  "  that  North's  got 
the  better  of  her." 

152 


and  Other  People 


"  Pshaw !  North's  safe  until  to-night  at 
least,  if  not  to-morrow  morning.  What'U 
we  do?"  Madame's  accustomed  briskness 
is  a  bit  bhghted ;  between  the  two  extremes 
of  the  situation,  even  her  acute  httle  visage 
droops. 

"  Hang  the  girl,  Peggy !  we've  got  to  go ; 
there  isn't  any  use  in  talking  about  it.  She's 
keeping  out  of  the  way  because  she  wants  to, 
for  one  reason  or  another,  and  I  can't  stay 
fooling  here  for  her  whims.  I'll  tell  you," 
adds  the  Professor,  noting  Madame's  really 
rueful  expression,  for  she  was  fond  of  her 
sister  in  her  way ;  "  you  can  write  her  from 
Philadelphia  to-night  and  tell  her  just  what 
to  do ;  she's  got  some  money,  and  so  now, 
don't  worry  any  more  about  it." 

Madame,  it  is  as  well  to  state  here  as  any- 
where, wrote  the  letter  from  Philadelphia 
that  night,  and  gave  it  to  her  spouse  to  mail 
in  the  office  of  the  hotel  where  they  stopped ; 
but  the  Professor  saw  fit  to  drop  the  missive 
in  a  waste-basket,  after  partially  reducing  it 
to  an  ash  with  his  cigar. 

Professor  von  Bommelcamp  had  long 
looked  coyly  about  him  for  a  means  of  ship- 
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The  New  Yorkers 


ping  Miss  Brown,  and  the  wherewithal  be- 
ing now  in  his  power,  he  of  course  made  use 
of  it,  tributing  his  remnant  of  a  conscience 
with  the  soothing  knowledge  that  he  could 
cable  for  her  if  Peggy  became  violent,  as  she 
would  probably  cling  to  the  Hotel  Mazzoleni 
for  a  time  at  least. 

With  this  perfectly  coherent  plan  in  his 
mind  the  Professor  turns  swiftly  on  his  heel 
to  bestow  a  plausible  solution  of  the  mystery 
on  the  bewildered  Signor,  commends  the 
young  lady  to  his  fatherly  care,  hustles  Ma- 
dame into  the  coach,  presses  a  bill  into  the 
hand  of  Bartolo,  change  into  the  palms  of  his 
confreres,  jumps  in  himself,  gives  the  order 
for  the  Grand  Central  Depot — and  amid  the 
waving  of  handkerchiefs,  napkins,  and  in 
the  delicious  fresh  breeze,  off  drive  Profes- 
sor von  Bommelcamp  and  his  most  accom- 
plished wife. 

*'  Ah !  "  moans  the  Signora  Mazzoleni, 
whisking  her  apron-corner  across  her  eyes, 
and  crossing  herself  fervently,  the  excel- 
lent good  gentleman ;  it  is  the  bed  of  death 
that  he  hurries  to,  and  it  is  indeed  very 
thoughtless  of  the  Signorina  Brown  to  make 
154 


and  Other  People 


herself  away  on  this  occasion.  Well,  youth 
was  always  so,  and  she  could  follow  her 
relatives,  or  remain  safely  with  us,  as  she 
pleased,"  with  which  comfortable  reflection 
the  worthy  woman  set  about  her  daily  duties. 

The  "  thoughtless  Signorina  "  remained 
on  her  knees  before  the  poor  little  statue  of 
Mary  for  at  least  two  hours. 

No  one  noted  her  ;  great  mother  churches 
there  are,  scattered  all  about  the  city,  in  this 
street  and  that,  some  with  crosses  over  door 
and  some  without,  that  stand  open  always 
with  ready  cradling  arms  and  dim,  unques- 
tioning aisles  for  all  the  w^eak  and  weary 
who  walk  in. 

When  the  girl  arose  the  sun  had  southed 
and  had  drunk  up  all  the  freshness  of  the 
air ;  as  she  came  out  into  the  street  she  stag- 
gered a  little,  and  her  stiffened  knees  trem- 
bled as  she  descended  the  steps. 

She  did  not  know  the  time,  so  went  into  a 
shop  and  asked.  It  was  half  after  twelve, 
and  she  knew  very  well  that  her  sister  and 
brother-in-law  had  not  tarried  of  their  flight 
for  her. 

By  no  means.  As  soon  as  they  had  turned 
155 


The  New  Yorkers 


the  corner  of  CHnton  Place,  Professor  von 
Bommelcamp,  putting  his  head  out  of  the 
window,  told  the  driver  sharply  to  stop  on 
the  way  up  at  the  Judge  building,  which  ac- 
cordingly was  done.  The  Professor  alight- 
ed, ran  in,  and  out  again,  nodded  and  smiled 
at  Peggy,  told  the  coachman  to  wait  a  min- 
ute, crossed  Fifth  Avenue,  hurried  through 
Sixteenth  Street  to  Broadway,  up  a  block, 
and  into  the  Bank  of  the  Metropolis. 

He  required  no  identification,  for  a  few 
weeks  previous,  on  learning  that  the  Banker 
was  a  depositor  in  this  institution,  the  Pro- 
fessor, such  was  his  confidence  in  this  excel- 
lent man's  judgment,  had  transferred  his 
own  account  thither  from  the  Chase  Na- 
tional, which  was,  after  all,  rather  too  far 
downtown  for  a  man  not  in  active  business. 

Professor  von  Bommelcamp  had  a  few 
pleasant  words  with  the  paying  teller  (he 
always  had  pleasant  words  with  everyone), 
did  not  draw  out  his  own  hundred  dollars 
of  balance,  but  obtained  the  cash  in  large 
and  small  bills  for  the  Banker's  check,  and 
smilingly  went  out.  He  walked  briskly,  ex- 
panding his  chest,  down  Broadway  to  Fif- 


and  Other  People 


teenth  Street,  across  to  the  Avenue  again, 
and  surprised  the  driver  by  appearing  from 
below  instead  of  where  he  had  last  had  sight 
of  him. 

The  Professor  jumped  in  with  a  cheerful 
"All  right!"  to  the  man,  and  off  they 
whirled  to  the  Grand  Central. 

Arrived  there,  the  two  trunks  taken  in, 
the  bill  paid,  and  the  porter  tipped,  the 
Professor  halted  an  instant  to  watch  the  cab 
out  of  sight,  when,  mixing  with  the  passen- 
gers of  an  incoming  train,  he  soon  made  glad 
the  heart  of  another  cabman  by  engaging 
him. 

Madame,  on  spy  from  the  waiting-room, 
emerged,  and  was  assisted  in  by  her  hus- 
band, the  two  trunks  were  put  up,  and  the 
order  given : 

"  Pennsylvania  Railroad,  foot  of  Desbros- 
ses  Street/'  whither  they  were  promptly 
taken. 

*'A  steamer  sails  to-morrow,  Peg,  from 
Philadelphia,"  observes  her  lord.  It's  a 
circuitous  route  to  Australia,  but,  my  dear, 
it  will  be  a  safe  one/'  and  the  Professor 
winks  as  he  taps  his  breast-pocket. 

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The  New  Yorkers 


"  I  know,  John ;   but  Mary  ?  " 

"  Able  to  walk  alone ;  and  if  she  isn't 
she'll  toddle  over  to  us,  never  you  fear.'* 

Miss  Brown  did  walk  quite  alone,  back  to 
the  little  gala-day-looking  hostelry  in  Clin- 
ton Place. 

Her  eyes  flew  up  to  the  top-floor  hall-bed- 
room window,  but  the  awning  there  told  no 
different  story  than  did  its  companions,  and 
she  went  in  the  house,  where  all  the  exclama- 
tions, sighs,  smiles,  explanations,  and  coun- 
sellings  imaginable  were  showered  upon  her. 

The  girl  only  answered, 
I  will  go  upstairs  and  rest  awhile.  I 
don't  know  but  it  is  better  for  me  to  stop 
quietly  here,  if  I  may?  "  and  she  turned  two 
large  wistful  eyes  upon  the  Signora  and  the 
Signor. 

If  she  might !  What  idea !  Was  not  the 
whole  place  at  the  disposition  of  Signorina 
Brown ! 

So  Mary,  knowing  that  she  had  money  in 
her  purse — the  Professor  had  always  been 
very  liberal  with  her — dragged  up  the  stairs, 
entered  the  sitting-room,  and  sat  down. 

The  crisis  was  a  singular  one. 

158 


and  Other  People 


She  knew  that  up  above,  in  that  small 
room,  lay  the  man  whom  she  loved  and  who 
loved  her,  sunken  in  a  sleep  from  which  he 
could  not  be  awakened  earlier  than  ten 
o'clock  of  the  coming  night ;  she  knew  that 
yearn,  want,  hunger  as  she  might,  she  dared 
not  go  to  him,  for  not  only  the  conventional 
reasons,  but  many  others ;  she  knew  that  she 
had  not  only  cut  loose  from  the  moorings  of 
trickery  and  fraud,  but  that,  single-handed, 
she  stood  alone  on  the  shore  of  the  world, 
with  only  God  knowing  what  the  awakening 
of  Eustace  North,  and  the  awakening  of  the 
whole  house  would  yet  mean  for  her. 

Would  he  outcast  her  from  his  heart? 

If  he  did,  could  she  blame  him  ? 

If  he  did,  where  should  she  turn  ? 

And — blasting  thought  that  sent  the 
warm  young  blood  shivering  like  rills  of  icy 
water  through  her  veins — should  he  not 
awaken,  or  only  awaken  to  sleep  again  that 
longest  sleep  ?  For  Peggy  might  have  given 
him  too  much  of  the  drug.  As  this  new  hor- 
ror scourged  her,  she  swayed  and  her  head 
swam  and  she  grasped  at  the  air  with  her 
empty  arms,  and  fell  a-praying  the  snatches 
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The  New  Yorkers 


that  came  to  her  to  say  for  him — incoherent, 
disjointed,  but  the  language  of  one  who 
wrestled  with  the  Lord,  and  out  of  the  night 
of  a  noisome  yesterday,  strove  to  pluck  the 
promise  of  a  blessed  to-morrow. 

It  is  meted  out  to  women  that  they  shall 
do  nothing  so  much,  or  so  well,  as  wait. 

Mary  Brown  waited. 

Until  nightfall,  when  Bartolo  came  with 
her  dinner  on  a  smart  little  tray,  the  Signora 
thinking  in  the  depths  of  her  kindly  soul  that 
the  lonely  girl  would  like  it  best  so. 

Bartolo  paused  a  moment  at  the  door  and 
tapped  his  forehead  as  if  trying  to  remember 
something. 

Ah  !  oh,  yes ;  he  was  sure  that  the  Signora 
had  bidden  him  with  a  message  of  respect  to 
the  Signorina,  to  ask  if  perhaps  she  knew 
anything  of  Mr.  North  ;  he  had  not  been  seen 
in  the  salle  a  manger  to-day;  he  had  not 
even  been  seen  to  leave  his  room  or  the  hotel ; 
did  the  Signorina  know  if  maybe  he  had 
gone  out  of  town  ? 

The  Signorina  shook  her  head;  she  did 
not  speak,  but,  as  Bartolo  repeated  it  to  Nuc- 
cia  and  the  Signora,  he  added  that  she  had 
i6o 


and  Other  People 


become  as  white  as  the  large  platter  at  that 
moment  being  wiped  dry  by  Nuccia's  little 
brown  fingers. 

The  Signora  grew  grave ;  she  sought  the 
Signor,  who,  with  Latin  laughter  of  good 
humor,  cried  out  to  her, 

You  exercise  yourself  too  much  !  Figure 
to  yourself :  it  is  a  young  man ;  perhaps  at  a 
ball  last  night  after  the  experiment,  who 
knows  ?  and  resting  himself  all  day  after  so 
much  dancing." 

With  which  the  Signora  Mazzoleni  was 
obliged  to  quiet  her  excited  nerves  until  ten 
o'clock,  when  she  could  quiet  them  no 
longer. 

Mary  Brown  had  walked  the  floor  for  two 
hours ;  she  heard  them  all  now  as  they  came ; 
the  Signor  trod  heavily  up,  reaching  the  top 
of  the  house  first;  he  peeped  through  the 
key-hole  and  gave  a  grunt  of  animated  dis- 
covery. 

"  The  gas  burning  still ;  guess  I  must 
wake  up  the  young  gentleman  by  this  time ; 
I  cannot  afford  the  gas  burn  all  day  and  all 
night  too !  "  with  which  the  Signor  began  a 
vigorous  pounding  on  the  door. 

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The  New  Yorkers 


No  answer  came  save  the  resounding, 
across  the  square  hall,  of  his  own  thumps. 

Miss  Brown  stood  shuddering  against 
the  wall,  while  the  Signora,  Bartolo,  Nic- 
colo,  Errico,  and  Franco,  followed  by  Nuc- 
cia,  Mary  Flynn,  and  the  cook,  cumbered 
the  staircase  with  their  bodies,  and  the  still 
house  with  their  groans  of  fear  and  appre- 
hension. 

The  Signor  kicked  manfully,  while  the 
Italian's  veritable  dread  of  the  great  de- 
stroyer blanched  his  fat  cheeks. 

With  one  final  output  of  all  his  strength 
the  door  gave  way,  bursting  from  its  lock, 
and  the  Signor  pushed  it  open  wide. 

The  two  jets  flared  full ;  the  inmate  lay 
dressed  on  his  bed  just  as  he  had  fallen, 
overcome  with  Madame  von  Bommelcamp's 
Maraschino. 

Cold? 

No;  warm. 

"  Bartolo,  run  for  the  doctor  across  the 
way!" 

The  crowd  of  eager,  vital  faces  press 
around  the  narrow  bed. 
The  doctor  comes. 

162 


and  Other  People 

Mary  Brown  creeps  part  way  up,  and 
stops,  shivering,  outside  the  door. 

The  medical  man  is  puzzled,  although,  of 
course,  he  does  not  say  so;  he  administers 
some  restoratives,  orders  more,  and  leaves. 

Mary  Brown  glides  down  after  him ;  she 
pulls  him  into  the  sitting-room ;  on  her  knees 
she  tells  him  that  she  knows  what  the  sleep- 
ing man  has  taken,  and  whispers  the  name 
of  the  drug  in  his  ear. 

He  looks  grave,  pledges  her  the  silence 
she  begs  for,  retraces  his  steps  to  the  hall- 
room,  gives  new  directions,  and  comes  down 
to  find  her  waiting  with  the  awful  query  on 
her  young  lips  that  must  pass  every  mouth's 
gate  once  or  more,  ere  we  quit  this  world: 

"  Will  he  get  better?" 

"  I  think  so ;  yes." 

And  then  the  tears  flood  her  eyes,  and, 
risen  up  straight,  with  a  firm,  beautiful  pur- 
pose in  her  face,  she  climbs  the  stairs  and 
walks  into  the  little  room  where  he  lies,  and 
stands  by  the  bed,  and  asks  the  Signora  to 
give  her  the  directions,  and  let  her  stop  there 
with  Nuccia,  and  not  worry  themselves,  for 
she  is  strong  and  able,  and  they  have  their 
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The  New  Yorkers 


duties  to-morrow,  and  she  will  herself  help 
Nuccia  with  the  dishes  the  next  day,  and 
so  on. 

So  gentle  is  she,  yet  so  calm  and  matter- 
of-fact,  that  there  is  nothing  to  do  but  her 
bidding,  and  they  leave,  the  three  together, 
tip-toeing,  human-wise,  when  him  they  are 
so  careful  for,  is  in  reality  the  one  they 
would  wish  to  waken — only  Bartolo ;  he 
crouches  outside  in  the  entry,  content  to 
watch  Nuccia's  shadow  through  the  door- 
chinks. 

The  night  wanes  away  into  the  open  arms 
of  the  morning;  the  hush  of  the  dawn  falls 
over  the  night  rumble  and  roar  of  the  great 
city,  and  still  the  sleeper  sleeps  on,  albeit  the 
drops  have  been  laid  upon  his  lips  and  forced 
between  his  shut  teeth  by  the  two  women. 

Mary  Brown  begins  to  fear  the  worst ;  she 
has  seen  the  drug  administered  before,  but 
only  dimly  heard,  and  at  a  distance  from  the 
scene,  of  its  workings ;  and  the  medical  man 
had  said  these  were  different  in  different 
constitutions,  and  that,  therefore,  if  no 
change  came  by  six  o'clock,  he  must  be  sent 
for  without  fail. 

164 


and  Other  People 


It  was  five  now. 

A  little  rift  of  sunlight  sidled  dancing  in 
at  the  window,  fell  across  the  bed-quilt,  and 
in  a  few  moments  had  travelled  quite  up  to 
the  face  of  the  sleeping  man ;  as  it  reached 
his  lips  Mary  Brown  crossed  over  to  shut 
it  out,  but  with  its  warm  kiss  Eustace  North 
awoke.  She  turned  and  saw  his  open  eyes, 
and  then  with  a  gasp  of  great  joy  and  sweet 
maid's  shame,  she  fled  away,  leaving  Nuccia 
to  tell  him  all  she  could,  and  to  answer  the 
persistent  questions  about  Miss  Brown, 
whom  he  was  sure  he  had  seen  standing  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed  when  he  awoke. 

Nuccia,  instructed  by  her  own  wise 
womanhood,  defied  and  routed  all  these  que- 
ries as  preposterous  dreams,  and  presently 
left  Mr.  North  to  Bartolo,  as  she  ran  down- 
stairs to  the  kitchen. 

When  the  doctor  came  over  at  seven  he 
found  a  laughing  fellow  on  the  top  floor,  not 
as  vigorous  as  two  days  ago,  perhaps,  but 
quite  himself  except  for  the  dizziness  that 
came  so  easily  if  he  moved  too  quickly. 

The  two  men  had  a  long  chat;  it  made 
them  fast  friends,  and  at  nine  they  break- 
165  • 


The  New  Yorkers 


fasted  together  down  in  the  sailc  a  manger, 
to  the  great  and  redundant  enthusiasm  of 
both  the  Signor  and  the  Signora  Mazzoleni. 
This  was  Sunday. 

By  Tuesday  even,  Eustace  North  had  not 
yet  seen  Miss  Brown,  ahhough  he  had  re- 
sorted to  all  the  devices  and  artifices  to 
which  love  is  heir-at-law. 

Mary  Brown  was  suffering  from  a  reac- 
tion ;  and  as  she  sat  there  alone,  comfortless, 
brooding,  all  realizations  were  resolved  into 
the  bald  fact  that  she  was  a  woman  belong- 
ing in  one  sphere  in  life,  Eustace  a  man  be- 
longing in  quite  another ;  that  the  dream  had 
been  sweet  as  paradise's  ov;n  garden,  but 
that  it  was  at  an  end  ;  that  the  reversal  of  the 
common  lot,  where  man  is  the  one  to  be  for- 
given and  woman  the  saint  who  shrives,  was 
not  as  it  should  be ;  that  even  were  he  ready 
to  pardon  all,  she  herself  could  never  sub- 
mit to  the  ordeal ;  that  indeed  no  good  or 
happy  future  could  arrive  from  such  a  be- 
ginning, and  so  on  and  on,  until  her  Wednes- 
day's reveries  and  struggles  were  interrupt- 
ed by  a  commotion. 

The  fact  is,  that  at  this  juncture  a  man 
166 


and  Other  People 


appeared  at  the  Hotel  Mazzoleni  with  a  bill 
for  the  rental  of  the  Professor  von  Bommel- 
camp's  piano,  which,  he  declared,  being  now 
three  months  due,  must  be  paid  or  the  in- 
strument removed. 

The  instrument  was  removed. 

Anon  the  same  thing  happened  in  regard 
to  the  sewing-machine. 

Thirdly,  a  picture-dealer  bore  off  in  sul- 
len triumph  his  artistic  treasures,  not  one  of 
which,  he  averred,  had  been  paid  for.  Pres- 
ently the  gentleman  who  dealt  in  pleasure- 
carriages  put  in  his  note  of  demand,  but 
here  redress  was  unhappily  not  forthcom- 
ing, for  the  Signor  and  the  Signorina  kept 
this  from  Miss  Brown  as  they  could  not 
keep  other  matters. 

Two  weeks  had  passed  and  no  word  had 
come  from  the  Professor,  who  at  this  pres- 
ent moment  was  in  fact  partaking  of  the 
genial  hospitality  of  the  Hotel  Victoria  in 
Geneva,  whither  his  steps  had  wandered  in 
obedience  to  the  fascinations  of  a  Swiss  gen- 
tleman of  wealth,  a  watch  manufacturer, 
whose  acquaintance,  together  with  that  of 
his  family,  Peggy  had  made  aboard  ship. 
167 


The  New  Yorkers 


Nor  had  Mr.  North  yet  contrived  to  see 
Miss  Brown,  although  he  had  written  her 
many  such  letters  as  brought  tears  to  her 
poor  eyes,  and  the  desolation  of  a  delayed 
and  sadly  realized  individuality  to  her  spirit. 
She  did  not  answer  them ;  she  only  sat  still, 
until  one  day  when  the  Signor  and  Signora 
signified  to  her,  with  all  the  warmth  of  kind- 
ly hearts,  that  if  she  would  so  far  discom- 
mode herself,  there  was  a  room  up-stairs, 
on  the  floor  with  the  honorable  Banker  and 
his  wife,  where  it  might  please  her  to  be, 
thus  permitting  them  the  chance  to  rent  the 
apartments,  which  perhaps  the  Professor 
might  no  longer  require. 

Thus,  with  the  most  perfect  grace  and 
goodness,  did  this  worthy  couple  set  their 
candle  on  the  candle-stick,  and  not  hide  it 
under  the  bushel  of  that  seductive  jade,  re- 
taliation. 

Miss  Brown  moved  up,  and  sat  down 
there  while  Nuccia  set  out  her  things  and 
hung  up  her  gowns  in  the  closet,  and  dusted 
and  chattered  and  sang,  so  that  the  Sig- 
norina  might  not  hear  what  was  going  on 
below. 

i68 


and  Other  People 


The  Signer  felt  it  now  to  be  quite  lawful 
and  proper  for  him  to  break  open  the  large 
packing-case,  and  if  it  were  possible,  since 
Miss  Brown  had  not  the  address  of  the 
Professor,  reimburse  himself  for  the  two 
months'  board  which  was  his  due,  by  the 
sale  of  the  Professor's  no  doubt  valuable 
implements. 

Alas !  these  proved  to  be  but  a  small  col- 
lection of  paving-stones,  packed  with  care 
between  many  newspapers. 

The  Signor  now  became  wroth  and  forced 
the  locks  of  the  two  large  trunks ;  they  were 
filled  with  paper-covered  novels  and  aged 
magazines ! 

That  night  the  Signor,  hitherto  discreet  to 
the  point  of  Quixotism,  held  consultation 
with  the  Banker^  which  resulted  in  the 
Banker's  seeking  Wall  Street  the  next  morn- 
ing, bearing  in  his  hand  the  fifty  shares  of 
the  American  Slag-Iron  Silverite  Company, 
of  Brussels  and  New  York,  which  up  to  this 
hour  had  securely  reposed  in  his  safe  in  Cen- 
tre Street. 

But  the  Banker  never  found  the  New 
York  office  of  this  company,  and  with  fire 
169 


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and  sword  in  his  soul  rushed  up  to  the 
Bank  of  the  MetropoHs  to  discover  him- 
self five  thousand  dollars  out,  and  the  man 
who  was  in,  two  weeks  ahead  of  his  ven- 
geance. 

Terrible  was  the  rage  of  the  Banker ;  deep 
were  the  groans  and  lamentations,  and  salt 
the  tears,  and  wild  the  execrations  of  his 
family;  morbid  was  the  wrath  and  gloom 
of  the  Signor ;  profound  the  murmurings  of 
the  Signora ;  horrible  the  concerted  threats 
of  the  Signor  and  the  Banker,  but  no  one  of 
them  all  ever  thought  of  such  a  thing  for 
a  moment,  as  an  implication  of  the  girl  up- 
stairs there  by  herself ;  they  even  forgot  to 
speak  of  her  at  all  in  the  first  flush  of  their 
discoveries,  which  goes  to  show  that  purity 
is  not  dross,  nor  is  even  the  lily  growing  sol- 
itary on  its  stalk,  though  its  roots  be  stuck 
in  mud,  the  less  white ;  nor  the  less  doth  it 
lift  its  head  upward  toward  the  heavens, 
thereby  lessoning  all  men  that  they  should 
do  likewise. 

At  evening  of  that  woful  day  Eustace 
North  was  acquainted  with  all  this,  and  then 
and  there  made  up  his  mind  that  he  could 
170 


and  Other  People 


wait  no  longer^  but  must  see  Miss  Brown  at 
once. 

He  told  the  Signora  so,  and  she,  good  soul, 
arranged  her  own  room  in  the  basement  with 
much  folding  of  shut-up  bed,  tricking  out 
of  antimacassars,  pinching  of  dimity  cur- 
tains grown  slazy,  and  cherking  of  paper 
flowers,  so  that  it  might  be  fit  for  Mary 
Brown  when  she  lured  her  down  into  it, 
while  Mary  Flynn  should  go  up  to  do  the 
weekly  sweeping. 

He  found  her  there,  sitting  staring  blank- 
ly at  the  portrait  of  Pius  the  Ninth  over  the 
mantel. 

She  did  not  flush  at  sight  of  him,  nor  rise, 
nor  put  out  a  hand  to  meet  his,  but  of  all 
these  absent  civilities  Eustace  North  made 
nothing,  but  simply  knelt  down  beside  her 
chair,  and  wildly  hurried  out  confession  of 
his  love,  asking  for  his  wife,  knowledge  of 
her  having  been  with  him  on  the  night  of 
the  drugged  sleep,  and  a  thousand  other 
things,  between  kisses  on  her  little  cold 
hands. 

She  drew  away  much  in  the  spirit  that 
one  buried  for  dead,  released,  might  have 
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The  New  Yorkers 


drawn  back  the  coffin's  Hd  upon  the  breast ; 
drew  aw^ay  and  walked  to  the  window  and 
shook  her  head. 

But  Mr.  North  was  not  of  the  caHbre  to 
be  put  off  by  anything  on  earth,  or  out  of  it 
either  that  he  had  heard  of  yet,  so  he  crossed 
over  after  her,  and  taking  her  in  his  arms 
held  her  to  his  throbbing  heart,  and  pressed 
such  kisses  on  her  Httle  red  mouth  as  she  had 
not  known  belonged  to  man  to  give,  or 
woman  to  receive. 

She  began  presently  to  rehearse  and  re- 
count her  past,  all  of  it. 

He  closed  her  lips  with  kisses,  sweet  as 
those  first  ones,  and  then  quickly  as  men  can 
in  crises,  summed  up  all  the  Professor's 
career  in  the  Hotel  Mazzoleni,  and  the  dis- 
coveries made  since  his  departure,  in  a  few 
terse,  final  sentences. 

And  you  want  me,  the  sister-in-law  of 
this  man,  to  be  your  wife?"  falters  she. 
Then,  breaking  from  his  protestations  and 
entreaties,  she  stands  up  and  says  :  "  No  ;  I 
— I  cannot ;  I  could  not  live  under  the  shame 
of  it,  under  the  dread  that  others  might  point 
at  the  one  who  bore  your  name;  under  the 
172 


and  Other  People 

cloud  of  knowing  that  you  knew,  that  would 
be  worst  of  all,  unbearable." 

"  Mary,"  he  says,  "  listen  to  me.  I  would 
rather  have  you  than  any  woman  who 
breathes." 

"  Oh,  but  when  a  man  marries,"  cries  she, 
"  it  is  not  the  woman  only  that  he  fetches 
home,  it  is  her  past ;  a  man's  past  lies  buried 
deep,  and  one  expects  men  to  have  pasts 
blurred,  maybe ;  but  a  woman,  she  should  go 
to  her  husband's  house  with  every  page  a 
blank,  save  those  written  over  by  his  hand," 
and  she  turns  away  wearily. 

Mary,"  whispers  he,  shaken  body  and 
soul  with  the  sob  that  a  man's  wrung  heart 
emits  in  moments  like  these.  "  Mary,  my 
Mary,  if  there  is  any  fault  in  me,  dear,  I  will 
cure  it;  if  there  is  any  wrong  in  me  your 
hand  will  make  it  right,  and  both  fault  and 
wrong  there  must  be  if  you  send  me  from 
you  for  such  reasons  as  you  give.  Were  I 
the  true  man  I  believe  myself,  you  would 
never  think  of  those  old  days  and  ways  when 
I  was  near  you ;  you  would  only  let  me  fold 
you  in  my  arms  "  (they  clasp  her  gently) 
"  and  shut  out  with  them  the  whole  bitter- 
173 


The  New  Yorkers 


ness  of  it  forever ;  you  would  find  dear  rest, 
so,  my  darling,  and  between  us  there  never 
could  arise  a  question  again  of  past,  or 
shame  or  sin.  My  child,"  as  the  tired  girl 
sinks  to  him,  "  these  things  have  only  passed 
you  by,  and  left  you  as  pure  as  when  you 
used  to  sit  beside  your  mother." 

Her  eyes  fill ;  better  than  any  words  can 
tell  her,  she  knows  that  truth  and  honor, 
safety  and  sweetness,  have  found  her  out  at 
last;  that  regretting  is  blotted  out  of  her 
possible  language ;  and  with  all  that  aban- 
donment of  which  only  a  restrained  nature 
like  hers  is  capable^  she  clings  to  him  and  re- 
ceives his  caresses. 

Two  days  after,  accompanied  by  the  Sig- 
nor  and  the  Signora,  Eustace  North  and 
Mary  Brown  drove  over  to  St.  Joseph's 
Church  and  were  married ;  they  were,  neither 
of  them,  Roman  Catholics,  but  it  seemed  to 
each  that  nowhere  else  could  they  so  per- 
fectly plight  their  faith. 

Nuccia  and  Bartolo  were  made  man  and 
wife  directly  after  them.  Mary  Brown 
would  have  it  so,  remembering  the  night- 
watch  they  had  held  together. 

174 


and  Other  People 


There  was  a  wedding-cake  in  the  private 
dining-room,  and  the  bride,  whiter  even 
than  her  wont,  cut  it  with  her  own  hand, 
albeit  the  sole  wedding  guests  were  the  Sig- 
nor  and  Signora,  Nuccia,  Bartolo,  Errico, 
Nicolo,  and  Franco,  with  Mary  Flynn  and 
the  cook  peeping  in  at  the  glass  door;  but 
there  were  enough  good  wishes  and  good 
toasts  drunk  in  clear  red  and  white  wines 
both,  to  have  sailed  ships  in,  did  lifeboats 
sail  on  hopes  alone. 

There  was  there,  about  the  small  gayly- 
decked  table,  with  its  fruit  and  flasks,  the 
perfect  courtesy  which  marks  the  humblest 
Latin  at  his  best ;  and  Nuccia,  in  her  native 
Bettola's  gala-dress,  and  Bartolo,  sombre  as 
he  used  to  behold  the  tenor  of  the  opera  on 
the  festive  occasions  of  the  stage,  modest,  se- 
rene, laughing,  urbane,  unobtrusive  with  the 
rest,  did  as  much  honor  to  the  other  bride 
and  groom  as  if  they  had  been  their  vassals. 

Amid  some  tears,  for  the  Signora  wept 
heartily,  much  rice,  the  waving  of  the  Amer- 
ican flag,  and  addios  by  the  dozens,  Eustace 
North  and  his  wife  drove  away  from  the 
gay  little  Hotel  Mazzoleni. 

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The  New  Yorkers 


Before  the  marriage  the  Banker  had 
accepted  Mr.  North's  note  for  five  thousand 
dollars,  payable  in  three  months,  and  the 
Signor  Mazzoleni  one  for  all  that  was  due 
him,  as  did  the  gentleman  who  rented  out 
the  pleasure-carriage.  Mr,  North  mort- 
gaged his  two  little  houses  in  Brookline  to 
meet  these  liabilities. 

The  Banker's  wife  and  daughter  watched 
the  happy  pair  get  into  the  coach ;  the  Sig- 
norina  sighed  as  she  caught  the  shining  light 
in  the  bridegroom's  eyes,  and  both  ladies  put 
up  a  prayer  for  the  welfare  of  the  Ameri- 
cans. 

The  striped  awnings  still  flutter  from  the 
windows;  the  sparrows  twitter  about  the 
sills ;  the  canary  now  shrieks  in  the  Signo- 
ra's  room,  since  it  remains  sole  spoil  of  the 
raid  of  the  von  Bommelcamps. 

Around  the  corner^  in  University  Place, 
Nuccia  and  Bartolo  preside  over  a  fruit- 
stand,  and  on  Sundays  they  take  turns  in 
going  to  mass. 

Yesterday,  when  Nuccia  knelt  before  the 
statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  she  saw  pres- 
ently near  her,  kneeling  also,  Eustace  North 

176 


and  Other  People 

and  his  bride,  just  back  from  their  six- 
months'  wedding-tour,  and  on  their  faces 
written  a  most  perfect,  sweet,  and  unuttera- 
ble happiness  and  peace. 


177 


THE  FOREIGNER 


THE  FOREIGNER 


A  MARRIED  woman  friend,  with  whom  I 
am  most  intimate,  did  me  the  honor  to  read 
these  reminiscences  in  manuscript. 

What  shall  you  call  it  ?  "  she  inquired, 
after  some  pithy  and  critical  remarks. 

"  Madam,"  I  replied,  "  will  you  not  do 
me  the  further  favor  to  christen  my  un- 
worthy sketch  ?  " 

Call  it  '  The  Foreigner,'  she  said,  shak- 
ing her  white  forefinger  at  me,  with,  at 
the  same  time,  a  most  charming  smile. 
Through  these  means  my  manuscript  was 
christened  by  a  most  thoroughly  apprecia- 
tive and  fascinating  woman. 

In  the  early  spring  of  the  year  i88-  I  was 
included,  by  governmental  appointment,  in 
a  party  sent  out  by  the  Emperor's  instruc- 
tions to  inspect  the  prison  system  of  the 
United  States  of  America.  I  imagine  that 
my  nomination  was  partly  due  to  my  excel- 
i8i 


The  New  Yorkers 


lent  knowledge  of  the  English  language, 
partly  to  my  father  having  been  quite  a  fav- 
orite of  his  Majesty's  (in  a  small  way)  in 
his  youth.  I  had  received  my  father's  name, 
Tancred,  in  baptism,  and  thus,  rather  than 
by  perseverance  or  pushing,  had  come  under 
the  Emperor's  notice. 

I  am  extremely  confident  that  I  had 
neither  a  natural  nor  yet  an  acquired  apti- 
tude for  the  inspection  of  prisons.  But  in 
an  age  like  ours  there  is,  not  infrequently, 
I  observe,  a  peculiar  discrepancy  between 
offices  and  officeholders.  However,  I  recall 
quite  distinctly  viewing  a  great  number  of 
jails,  with  all  their  paraphernalia  of  cells, 
workshops,  dining-halls,  libraries,  places  of 
solitary  confinement,  etc.,  etc. ;  also  draw- 
ing my  not  inconsiderable  salary;  also — 
this  last  with  singular  accuracy,  it  having 
been  the  only  obvious  reason  for  my  pres- 
ence as  a  member  of  the  party — having  been 
requested  to  sign  my  name  to  a  certain  long 
document,  by  a  gentleman  who  was  so  oblig- 
ing as  to  hand  me  a  pen  fresh  from  the  ink, 
and  who  assured  me  there  was  not  the  re- 
motest necessity  for  my  wearying  myself 
182 


and  Other  People 


with  a  perusal  of  the  report.  I  thanked  him 
cordially,  and  a  day  or  so  afterward  I 
learned  through  the  columns  of  a  newspaper 
that  "  the  official  report  of  the  committee  of 
gentlemen  sent  out  by  special  command  of 
the  Czar  to  report  on  the  prison  system  of 
America,  with  a  view  to  its  possible  adop- 
tion by  the  Russian  Government,  had  gone 
out  that  morning  by  the  steamship  Bothnia." 
With  this  piece  of  news  I  was  naturally 
well  pleased,  as  I  now  was  entirely  free  from 
the  somewhat  unpleasant  task  of  visiting 
prisons,  wherein  I  took  no  interest,  and  as- 
suredly was  not  expected  to,  by  the  remain- 
ing members  of  the  commission,  so  far  as  I 
could  ascertain. 

Finding  myself  thus  wholly  at  leisure, 
and  owing  to  my  foreign  name  and  birth, 
and  the  unmistakable  evidences  of  the  pos- 
session of  large  wealth,  which  hovered 
about  me  in  the  form  of  an  efficient  valet, 
some  rather  remarkable  diamonds,  and 
three  or  four  horses  of  excellent  birth ;  find- 
ing myself  also  considerably  sought  after 
by  society,"  I  determined,  notwithstand- 
ing the  attractions  of  my  native  land,  which 
183 


The  New  Yorkers 


to  me  were  not  inconsiderable,  to  remain  in 
America  for  at  least  six  months  longer.  I 
say  America,  whereas  I  mean  that  focus  of 
Americanisms,  the  city  of  New  York.  I 
took  up  my  abode  at  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel, 
although  the  Brevoort  and  the  Windsor 
were  both  strongly  recommended  to  me  by 
Europeans.  I  instinctively  felt  that  I  should 
stand  a  much  better  chance  of  studying  the 
people  at  the  hotel  I  had  chosen,  and  like- 
wise I  had  already  been  in  the  country  long 
enough  to  share  with  many  of  its  natives, 
the  mysterious  influence  which  the  words 
"  Fifth  Avenue  "  seem  to  carry  with  them. 
They  give  a  prestige  which  appears  to  in- 
oculate the  vulgarian  and  the  aristocrat 
alike,  although  the  one  class  is  possibly  as 
unconscious  of  it  as  the  other.  I  wrote  the 
word  aristocrat  "  advisedly.  In  this  land 
of  assertive  democratic  intentions,  I  have 
heard  more  of  the  claims  of  the  patrician 
than  in  any  other  which  it  has  been  my  fort- 
une to  visit.  I  find,  too,  that  the  circle  with- 
in the  circle  is  quite  as  much  an  institution 
of  American  society  as  it  is  in  that  of  a  king- 
dom or  an  empire,  and  that  the  core,  and  pith 
184 


and  Other  People 

and  heart  of  this  social  pinwheel,  is  sup- 
posed by  each  coterie  to  be  its  own  particu- 
lar property.  In  short,  every  woman  is 
her  own  criterion  in  matters  of  etiquette, 
dress,  manner  and  manners,  and  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  deferring  to  a  superior  power, 
save  en  route  to  the  pinnacle  which  each 
aspires  to  reach ;  which  difference  is,  after 
all,  perchance,  but  a  form  of  that  singular 
phase  which  the  Americans  call  in  their  ver- 
nacular, toadying." 

So  far  as  my  limited  observation  went,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  a  greater  or  less  degree 
of  circumspection,  or  discretion  was  the  out- 
ward and  visible  sign  of  the  New  York  so- 
ciety in  which  I  had  the  good  chance  to  min- 
gle, and  that  the  inward  and  spiritual  grace 
was  identical. 

Be  all  this  as  it  may,  I  have  to  thank  the 
Americans  for  much  liberal  hospitality,  and 
certainly  to  persons  of  foreign  extraction, 
who  at  the  same  time  may  be  accidentally 
the  possessors  of  large  wealth,  they  are  the 
most  singularly  obliging  people  that  I  have 
ever  encountered. 

While  still  engaged  in  my  capacity  of 
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The  New  Yorkers 

member  of  the  visiting  commission,  I  had 
passed  a  few  days  at  that  summer  Mecca  of 
the  unmarried,  the  Saratoga  Springs,  and 
had  there,  through  the  courtesy  of  one  of 
the  members  of  Congress  sojourning  at  the 
place  for  his  health,  made  the  acquaintance 
of  several  charming  ladies.  These  in  turn 
presented  me  to  a  number  of  their  friends, 
these  to  theirs,  so  that  at  the  end  of  my  week 
at  the  Grand  Union  Hotel  I  found  myself  in 
a  position  to  salute  some  fifty  or  sixty  gra- 
cious and  cordial  women,  and  with  my 
pocket-book  quite  full  of  cards  inscribed 
with  the  names  and  residences  of  these  fair 
dames,  the  donation  of  which  had  been  ac- 
companied by  pressing  invitations  to  call 
upon  them  the  ensuing  winter  in  New 
York. 

All  this  I  thought  most  delightful.  It 
might  naturally  have  been  so  to  any  man. 
But  I  will  confess  that  the  women  of  a  coun- 
try which  I  visit  for  the  first  time  are  to  me 
its  most  interesting  features. 

I  was  then  at  that  age — thirty-three — 
which,  from  analysis,  I  conclude  to  be  the 
most  enjoyable  to  himself  and  the  most 
1 86 


and  Other  People 


productive  of  agreeable  impressions  on  the 
women  a  man  meets.  He  has  not  as  yet 
touched  the  positive  of  thirty-five — the  half 
of  his  allotted  number  of  years — and  he 
has  left  behind  him  completely  the  thought- 
less, and  therefore  pointless  pleasures  of 
his  young  youth.  At  thirty-three  I  con- 
tend that  he  is  in  a  thoroughly  perfect  po- 
sition— other  things  being  equal — for  the 
keenest  mental  and  physical  enjoyments,  the 
one  set  of  faculties  playing  into  the  hands  of 
the  other,  and  thus  rendering  him  an  agree- 
able companion  to  himself  and  one  quite  as 
much  so  to  the  women  with  whom  he  comes 
in  contact. 

So,  discovering  these  bits  of  pasteboard 
in  my  portmanteau  in  October,  I  remem- 
bered the  engaging  and  hospitable  ladies  I 
had  met  in  July,  and  made  up  my  mind  to 
stay  in  New  York  during  the  season. 

In  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time  I 
found  myself  in  as  complete  a  vortex  of 
gayety  as  any  healthy  man  could  well  desire, 
and  I  must  say  that  I  enjoyed  it  most  posi- 
tively. The  contrasts  between  the  society  I 
now  frequented  and  those  to  which  I  had 
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The  New  Yorkers 


hitherto  been  accustomed,  were  noted  by  nic 
with  reHsh,  and  especially  the  delicious 
abandon  of  the  ladies:  the  young  and  un- 
married as  well  as  those  of  maturer  years, 
and  possessed  of  husbands.  This  peculiar- 
ity of  American  social  life  must  ever  form 
a  theme  in  the  minds  of  Europeans  for 
amazement  and  personal  admiration.  I  can 
assure  my  gentle  reader,  that  the  novelty 
and  delight  of  such  untrammelled  inter- 
course with  the  young  ladies  of  this  nation, 
was  to  me  a  source  of  refreshing  and  un- 
measured gratification. 

At  a  theatre -party,  given  by  my  friend 
Mrs.  Edwin  Grantham,  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  meeting  for  the  first  time  a  young  woman 
in  whose  society  I  have  passed,  since  that 
never-to-be-forgotten  night,  many  delight- 
ful hours. 

She  was  a  Miss  Bertha  Remington, 
''granddaughter  of  old  Peter  Van  Brodt," 
as  my  hostess  kindly  informed  me,  in  a  loud 
whisper,  by  way  of  prelude  to  my  presenta- 
tion to  her  young  friend. 

"  I  believe  you  have  not  been  in  this  coun- 
try very  long,  Mr.  Troitza?  " 

1 88 


and  Other  People 

"  No,  indeed — that  is  to  say,  since  April 
last  only." 

"  And  someone  says  that  you  are  a  Rus- 
sian?" 

**I  have  that  honor,  for  such  I  consider  it, 
Miss  Remington,  only  second  to  that  of  be- 
ing what  you  are — an  American." 

You  were  bred  in  diplomatic  circles,  I 
perceive,"  my  new  friend  says,  with  a  smile, 
and  then  surveying  me  from  head  to  foot 
with  a  coolness  that  instantly  suggested  to 
my  mind  some  horrible  defect  in  my  toilet, 
she  added,  "  Well,  you  are  possibly  inter- 
esting on  your  own  account,  but  I  find  you 
so  only  through  force  of  association  with 
my  school-days  at  a  convent  near  Paris." 

"  Indeed,"  I  cry,  with  more  relief  than  in- 
telligence, perhaps. 

"  Oh,  not  you  actually,  but  I  had  a  school- 
mate, a  Russian,  whom  I  liked  and  patron- 
ized quite  a  little,  and  since  or  before,  you 
are  the  only  Russian  whom  I  have  ever  met. 
By  the  bye,  I  believe  I  will  write  to  the  little 
woman.  I  left  her  last  letter  unanswered  a 
year  and  more  ago." 

"  Is  that  the  way  you  treat  your  friends, 
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Miss  Remington?  "  I  exclaim,  with  a  certain 
sentimental  glance  down  into  her  blue  eyes, 
which  has  done  me  a  great  deal  of  service  as 
avant  courrier  in  several  little^  flirtations 
shall  I  say? 

There  is  a  time,  we  say  in  Russia,  when 
every  servant,  however  faithful,  proves  de- 
fective. That  unpleasant  moment  had  ar- 
rived for  me  and  my  sentimental  glance. 

Miss  Remington  regards  me  with  an  as- 
tonished and  supercilious  disapproval,  and 
then  vouchsafes  to  speak. 

"  I  am  not  aware  that  I  said  that  your 
compatriote  was  a  friend  of  mine." 

"  You  said  that  you  liked  her,  if  I  am 
not  mistaken,"  I  answer,  being  obliged 
to  retreat  through  sheer  amazement  at 
the  failure  of  my  ally,  the  sentimental 
glance. 

"  I  like  a  variety  of  people,  but  I  am  quite 
sure  that  they  are  not  my  friends." 

"  That,  then,  must  be  solely  your  own 
fault,"  I  return,  with  a  weak  attempt  at  im- 
plied flattery. 

"  I  agree  with  you,  and  shall  not  attempt 
to  twist  your  words  to  my  own  disadvantage, 
190 


and  Other  People 

which  might  very  easily  be  done,  by  the 
bye." 

"  You  would  not  be  so  cruel,  I  am  sure." 

As  I  say  this,  for  the  first  time  since  my 
arrival  in  this  singular  country,  I  think  my- 
self a  consummate  fool.  And  I  judge  from 
the  expression  of  my  new  friend's  face  that 
she  is  occupied  in  thinking  the  same  thing. 

Miss  Remington  preserves  silence  dur- 
ing the  next  act,  while  I  devote  myself  to 
the  pretty  young  lady  who  was  provided  for 
me  at  the  beginning  of  the  evening.  When 
the  curtain  once  more  descends,  I  find  my- 
self gravitating  toward  the  corner  where 
Miss  Remington  sits,  having  left  my  pretty 
young  lady  with  two  young  gentleman  visi- 
tors, one  of  whom  twisted  a  curl  around  his 
finger  surreptitiously,  I  presume,  while  the 
other  fed  her  very  nicely  with  sugar-plums. 

I  look  at  Miss  Remington  and  Miss  Rem- 
ington looks  at  me.  I  think  that  she  is  very 
different  from  the  American  young  ladies 
whom  I  have  had  the  honor  of  associating 
with  for  the  past  two  months.  She  appears 
to  possess  all  their  sang-froid,  and  yet  there 
is  a  species  of  repression  about  her  that  is 
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unusual  in  cultivated  circles  in  this  country. 
In  fact  one  might  almost  say  that  Miss  Rem- 
ington was  a  trifle  "  shy,"  without  intend- 
ing to  be  abusive,  I  assure  you,  my  gentle 
reader.  Suddenly  I  felt  that  it  would  be 
best  for  me  to  plunge  in  incdias  res,  and  that 
probably  this  young  woman  would  not  make 
that  objection  to  an  absence  of  sentiment 
that  her  sisters  appeared  to. 

Miss  Remington,  will  you  condescend 
to  tell  me  what  would  constitute  a  passport 
to  friendship  in  your  estimation?  " 

"  I  hardly  think  I  could  reduce  it  to  a 
neat  sentence,"  she  replies,  with  a  grave 
smile. 

**  You  are  extremely  clever,"  I  say,  with 
an  honest  impulse ;  will  you,  then,  deign 
to  tell  me  if  you  think  I  could  be  a  friend  in 
your  acceptation  of  the  word?" 

"  Undoubtedly  you  could  " — my  face  be- 
comes radiant,  I  am  certain — to  some  one 
or  other ;  "  and  I  am  conscious  that  my  iri- 
descence suffers  a  change  that  perchance  is 
less  jubilant  in  appearance. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,"  I  for  the  third  time 
say,  with  a  vague  idea  that  I  am  degenera^- 
192 


and  Other  People 

ing  into  a  catechist,  "  what  my  idea  of  a 
friend  is?" 

She  smiles.  "  One,  Mr.  Troitza,  who  will 
partake  so  far  of  the  nature  of  your  enemy 
that  he  will  stoop  to  flatter  you.  Your  idea 
of  a  friend  is  very  much  like  that  of  the  rest 
of  my  acquaintances."  She  speaks  a  little 
wearily. 

I  protest !  " 

Do  not.  I  assure  you  I  am  utterly  in- 
different to  your  ideas  upon  almost  any  sub- 
ject." I  am  so  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  the 
country  as  to  mildly  wonder  if  Miss  Rem- 
ington is  acquainted  with  the  figures  of  my 
income,  but  I  compose  my  feelings  and 
once  more  call  to  my  aid  an  old  ally. 

"  You  classed  me  just  now  " — and  I  bend 
upon  her  a  pair  of  eyes  that  I  know  are  ex- 
ceedingly handsome  and  caressing  when 
they  will  so  to  be — among  your  acquaint- 
ances. Ah,  Miss  Remington,  will  you  not 
let  me  hope  one  day,  not  distant,  to  enroll 
myself  among  your  friends  ?  " 

I  expect  that  Miss  Remington  will  draw 
from  her  pocket  a  dainty  perfumed  card  and 
invite  me  to  call,  but  she  does  nothing  of  that 
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kind.  A  laughing  fairy  leaps  into  each  of 
her  blue  eyes,  and  she  says  instead,  with  a 
glance  the  feminine  counterpart  of  my  own : 

"  Would  not  you  prefer  to  be  one  of  my 
admirers,  Mr.  Troitza  ?  " 

"  That  I  am  already,"  I  reply ;  but  at  the 
same  time  I  feel  an  unaccustomed  and  dis- 
heartening chill,  which  frequently  assails  a 
person  who  thinks  himself  laughed  at. 

"  Will  you  permit  me  the  honor  to  call 
upon  you?"  I  enjoy  and  plunge  into  this 
new  sensation  without  forethought;  Miss 
Remington  is  the  first  lady  who  has  been 
kind  enough  to  accord  me  such  an  oppor- 
tunity since  my  arrival  in  America. 

"  I  will." 

"  Will  you  give  me,  then,  your  residence, 
Miss  Remington?  " 

She  does  so  verbally,  having  evidently 
forgotten  to  bring  with  her  her  card-case. 

And  then  the  curtain  goes  up  once  more 
and  I  return  dutifully  to  my  pretty  young 
lady. 

Mrs.  Grantham's  theatre-party  had  oc- 
curred on  Tuesday  evening.    The  follow- 
ing Monday  I  had  called  upon  Miss  Rem- 
194 


and  Other  People 

ington^  but  was  informed  that  she  was  not 
at  home. 

Friday  I  had  promised  to  Mrs.  Van  Blar- 
com,  a  very  agreeable  lady,  whose  husband, 
Mrs.  Grantham  told  me,  had  begun  life  as  a 
carpenter,  thence  a  builder,  and  was  now  a 
large  and  successful  real  estate  owner. 
Mrs.  Grantham,  I  fancied,  implied  a  sus- 
picion of  scorn  in  her  tone.  But  then,  this 
must  have  been  imagined  by  me,  because 
Mrs.  Van  Blarcom  informed  me  that  Mrs. 
Grantham,  in  early  life,  had,  with  the  most 
praiseworthy  tact,  assisted  her  young  hus- 
band in  his  bakeshop,  although  now  that 
Mr.  Van  Blarcom  was  the  head  of  a  large 
sugar  importing  house,  his  wife,  with  a 
spirit  of  unusual  and  admirable  modesty, 
would  not  permit  her  virtues  in  connection 
with  the  bakeshop  to  be  mentioned  in  her 
presence. 

So  it  is  in  this  country ;  each  person  seems 
to  be  thoroughly  conversant  with  the  imme- 
diate pedigree  of  his  neighbor,  and  to  think 
it  no  trouble  whatever  to  impart  the  same 
to  the  foreign  traveller. 

I  have  observed  that  a  grandfather  is  con- 
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sidered  a  very  great  item  in  this  country,  and 
that,  comparatively  speaking,  there  are  but 
few  famines  possessing  those  agreeable  rela- 
tives. I  mean  in  this  wise.  That  upon 
offering  to  introduce  me  to  any  ladies,  my 
various  hostesses  have  so  frequently  been 
in  the  habit  of  saying,  "  Miss  So-and-so,  her 
grandfather  was  so-and-so,  you  know ! " 
that  finally  I  became  so  interested  with  re- 
gard to  this  piece  of  information,  that  upon 
one  of  those  occasions,  when  it  was  omitted, 
I  ventured  to  inquire  as  to  the  grandfather 
in  this  particular  case. 

My  hostess  laughed  and  said,  "  Oh,  Mr. 
Troi'tza,  it  is  not  everybody  in  this  country 
who  has  a  grandfather — and  when  they  have 
you  are  very  sure  to  hear  of  it.  If  you  real- 
ly wish  to  know  about  this  young  lady's, 
I  suppose  I  must  tell  you — he  kept  an  eating- 
house." 

My  informant  here  indulged  in  laughter, 
but  I  was  not  able  to  join  in  her  mirth.  I 
was  too  seriously  relieved  by  learning  that 
my  new  acquaintance  really  had  had  an  ac- 
tual ancestor.  It  afterward  occurred  to  me 
that  it  seemed  to  be  those  persons  whose 
196 


and  Other  People 

grandfathers  had  been  engaged  in  some  vul- 
gar or  common  business  whose  grandfathers 
were  omitted  in  the  pre-introductory  code. 

On  Friday  evening  I  found  myself  in 
Mrs.  Van  Blarcom's  handsome  drawing- 
rooms,  and  very  soon  after  my  entrance  I 
was  surrounded  by  seven  or  eight  pretty 
young  women,  most  richly  and  elegantly 
dressed.  I  wished  myself  seven  or  eight 
Tan  Troitzas  for  their  sweet  sakes.  But  it 
did  not,  after  all,  seem  to  make  the  slightest 
difference  to  them,  for  they  were  kind 
enough  to  appear  to  enjoy  my  society  in  a 
party  quite  as  much  as  though  I  had  been 
so  fortunate  as  to  have  been  en  tefe-d-tete 
with  each.  They  used  a  peculiar  ner- 
vous laugh,  called  "  giggling,"  considerably, 
and  indulged  in  a  great  many  remarks,  sotto 
voce,  too,  which  I  took,  as  I  presume  it  was 
intended  that  I  should,  as  a  mark  of  their 
intimate  feelings  toward  me.  For,  of  course, 
except  in  cases  of  perfect  familiarity,  this 
tone  is  never  used. 

They  also  were  so  obliging  in  their  com- 
pliments as  to  quite  overpower  me. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Troitza,  you  have  such  divine 
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eyes !  "  sighed  one  of  these  lovely  young 
ladies;  the  photo  that  you  gave  me  hangs 
right  over  my  lounge,  and  I  keep  violets 
under  it  always." 

"  I  have  the  one  you  gave  me  in  my  watch- 
case,"  exclaimed  another;  "see!" 

Covered  with  a  certain  kind  of  confusion, 
I  looked  at  my  counterfeit  presentment. 

What  pleased  me  most  in  reflecting  upon 
these  little  episodes  was  the  charming  frank- 
ness and  ingenuousness  of  these  lovely  girls. 
To  other  tourists  in  this  country  these  ebul- 
litions of  sentiment  may  have  seemed  to 
merit  harsh  language.  To  me  they  were  so 
many  evidences  of  the  purity  of  the  national 
school  of  manners,  although  my  own  preju- 
dices— merely  the  result  of  education  and 
habit — forbade  my  indulging  in  any  dreams 
that  my  own  young  countrywomen  might 
one  day  regulate  themselves  by  a  like  stand- 
ard. 

While  suffering  from  the  embarrassment 
caused  by  these  flattering  syrens,  I  caught 
sight  of  Miss  Remington  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  and  with  one  of  those  murmurs 
which  says  nothing  and  everything,  and  a 
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and  Other  People 

bow,  I  left  my  pleasant  young  friends.  One 
can  do  thus  in  this  dehghtful  American  so- 
ciety. The  ladies  are  so  conciliating  and  so 
far  from  exacting  that  it  really  seems  to  a 
man,  after  a  sojourn  among  them,  that  he 
has  conferred  a  favor  by  his  presence,  and 
need  not  apologize  for  his  departure.  But 
then  this  is,  of  course,  far  from  being  the 
fact — it  is  only  a  fascinating  way  they  have 
— these  fascinating  ladies  ! — of  making  one 
feel  what  they  call  at  home."  I  do  not, 
however,  remember  ever  to  have  felt  in  this 
way  at  home.  But  then,  my  memory  is 
probably  not  as  retentive  as  it  might  be. 

Miss  Remington  receives  me  affably,  civ- 
illy regrets  having  been  out  at  the  time  I 
called,  and  at  once  presents  me  to  a  lady  who 
sits  beside  her,  and  whom  I  have  noticed 
pulling  convulsively  at  Miss  Remington's 
sleeve  once  or  twice  pending  our  little  col- 
loquy. 

"  Mrs.  Fisher,"  I  exclaimed,  bending  low 
over  the  lady's  hand,  which  she  graciously 
extends  to  me,  "  I  am  happy  in  meeting 
you." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Troitza,  'tis  I  who  am  happy ; 
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I  came  here  expressly  to-night  because  dear 
Mrs.  Van  Blarcom  told  me  you  would  be 
among  her  guests.    I  have  so  longed  to 
know  you ;  I  have  heard  so  much  of  you  !  " 
"  Madame !  " 

I  execute  a  salaam  intended  to  convey  the 
deepest  sensibility  of  this  lady's  condescen- 
sion. 

"  Of  course,  you've  never  heard  of  me/' 

There  is  a  bewitchingly  infantile  intona- 
tion about  this  which  instantly  causes  me  to 
ransack  my  memory  for  a  grandfather." 
But  do  what  I  will,  I  can  recall  none  in 
connection  with  my  new  acquaintance. 

Of  course  he  has  heard  of  you,  Mrs. 
Fisher ;  how  absurd !  " 

Miss  Remington  makes  this  assertion 
with  calmness. 

Again  I  bow ;  this  time  it  is  meant  to  ex- 
press assured  recollection,  and  I  say: 

"  Madame's  grandfather  was — "  I  glance 
appealingly  at  Miss  Remington ;  can  it  be 
that  she  smiles  behind  her  fan?  at  Mrs. 
Fisher!  Ah,  it  is  evident  that  the  lady's 
grandfather  belongs  to  that  class  whose 
ashes  are  permitted  to  rest  in  peace. 

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and  Other  People 

"  Is  it  possible,  Mr.  Troitza,  that  you  have 
never  heard  of  Maud  MadeHne  Fisher,  the 
poetess  ? "  inquires  Miss  Remington,  in 
tones  of  amazement^  although  there  is  a  very 
singular  light  in  her  eyes. 

I  have  not ;  but  what  does  that  signify  in 
a  case  of  this  kind. 

"  Is  it  possible !  have  I  the  honor  of  ad- 
dressing one  of  the  sweetest  song-birds  of 
this  dear  country  ?  "  I  perform  still  one 
more  bow,  hoping  it  may  convey  sufficient 
homage  to  atone  for  all  my  shortcomings. 

"  Oh— h— h !  you  flatterer,  flatterer,  flat- 
terer ! "  Mrs.  Fisher  shakes  her  fingers  at 
me  and  taps  my  arm  with  her  fan  in  the 
most  playful  manner. 

"  Now  tell  me,"  she  adds,  drawing  her 
chair  somewhat  nearer  to  mine,  and  assum- 
ing a  confidential  attitude,  "  which  of  my 
poems,  that  you  have  seen^  do  you  like  the 
best?  I  always  ask  every  new  person  that 
question,  and  then  I  can  form  some  idea, 
judging  from  their  preference,  of  their 
character  and  spirit — now  tell  me  ?  "  with 
more  taps  on  my  arm,  and  an  arch  glance 
into  my  eyes. 

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The  New  Yorkers 


This  is  a  climax  which  I  had  not  foreseen, 
and  I  am,  moreover,  chagrined  to  observe 
that  Miss  Remington  has  turned  from  me 
and  is  smihng  joyously  at  her  own  pleasant 
thoughts,  doubtless. 

"  Madame,"  I  reply,  "  where  all  is  so 
beautiful  how  can  you  be  so  cruel  as  to  ask 
me  to  express  a  choice?  "  I  bend  upon  the 
poetess  that  devotional  glance  to  which  Miss 
Remington  took  silent  exception.  In  this 
case  I  am  happy  to  record  it  did  its  usual  ex- 
ecution, and  the  lady  bridled  and  sidled  in 
a  way  that  was  most  kittenish  and  becom- 
ing, although  she  was  a  trifle  inclined  to 
embonpoint. 

You  naughty,  naughty  Russian !  to  try 
and  make  poor  little  me  conceited !  Ah,  I 
knew  the  moment  that  I  gazed  into  those 
eyes  of  yours  that  I  had  met  a  kindred 
spirit !  " 

"  Who  is  the  flatterer  now  ?  "  I  cry,  re- 
lieved incredibly  to  find  my  companion  has 
deserted  the  realm  of  actual  poetry,  although 
I  momentarily  wondered  where  lay  the  con- 
nection between  the  fact  of  my  being  a 
"  naughty  Russian  "  and  a  "  kindred  spirit." 

202 


and  Other  People 

"  Now,  did  you  like  that  *  Dreamland ' 
that  I  had  in  last  week  best,  or  the  *  Tangled 
Threads  '  in  this,  Mr.  Troitza?  " 

Alas !  I  was  chained  to  the  muse  and  could 
not  escape. 

"  Shall  I  be  candid?" 
Do — do  be  so ;  there  is  nothing  I  admire 
so  much  as  candor." 

"  Well,  I  must  say,  then,  that  to  me  there 
was  a  peculiar  charm  in  the  measures  of 
the  '  Tangled  Threads ! '  "  How  devotedly 
I  wished  that  I  knew  what  they  were ! 

"  How  delicious  !  I  like  it  best,  too !  Ah, 
Mr.  Troitza,  I  feel  in  the  inmost  recesses  of 
my  soul  that  in  you  I  have  met  a  being  who 
can  comprehend  the  far  heights  and  the 
shady  ravines  of  my  spirit ;  we  poets  have 
not  natures  like  other  mortals ;  we  are  made 
of  a  finer  clay — a  clay  that  responds  to  the 
most  aerial  touch,  and  is  molded  even  by 
the  whispering  wings  of  fairies  as  they  flut- 
ter by  us.  Now  to  many  I  should  hesitate 
to  express  myself  in  this  manner.  But  to 
you  I  feel  that  I  can  pour  out  the  treasures 
of  my  intellect  and  my  heart ;  to  you  I  can 
speak  freely  of  the  prisoned  ego  that  beats 
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its  pinions  wildly  against  the  bars  of  the 
vulgar  and  prosaic  world,  and  that  sings  its 
softest  notes  to  one  like  yourselves  moulded 
in  the  true  poetic  vein  !  " 

Can  I  resist  the  pleading  of  those  Sappho- 
like orbs?  No!  I  throw  myself  into  the 
situation  with  utter  abandonment. 

"  Ah^  how  blessed  am  I,  Mrs.  Fisher,  in 
having  met  you !  What  words  can  describe 
to  you  the  pleasure  I  experience  in  listening 
to  you?  If  this  be  your  prose,  what  must 
be  your  poetry  I  " 

"  Why,  you  know ;  you  have  seen  it." 

There  is  a — shall  I  say — sharpness  in  the 
poetess'  tone  which  at  once  reveals  to  me 
that  she  is  perhaps  not  altogether  a  dweller 
in  the  clouds. 

"  True,  true,"  I  exclaim,  hurriedly,  "  that 
'  Tangled  Threads  ' — exquisite — lovely !  " 

"  Then  you  do  not  think  me  too  enthusi- 
astic? You  will  come  and  see  me?  "  Mrs. 
Fisher  produces  the  card. 

"  Can  you  doubt  it  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Troitza,  will  you  tell  me  the  time, 
please?  Half-after  ten?  oh,  I  am  so 
thoughtless!  Ever  since  I  lost  my  poor 
204 


and  Other  People 

dear  lamb,  I  am  not  fit  to  take  care  of 
myself!" 

"  A  pet  Iamb,  I  suppose  ?  "  I  say,  with  the 
most  ardent  sympathy.  "  You  must  miss  it 
sadly." 

"  I  meant  my  husband,  Mr.  Troitza — my 
dear  departed  darling,  whose  baby  and  pet 
I  was — he  was  so  much  older  than  I." 

**  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons ;  so  young 
and  already  a  widow !  "  I  gaze  in  a  sort 
of  dazed  incredulousness  at  the  lady,  find- 
ing this  my  only  means  of  escape  from 
my  mistake.  "  You  have  my  entire  sym- 
pathy." 

I  am  sure  of  it,  and  yet  " — there  is  a 
coy  reluctance  in  the  poetess'  voice — "  sup- 
pose I  were  to  test  you,  now  ?  " 
"  Test  me,  I  entreat  you !  " 
Ah^  well,  then  " — at  this  moment  a  lady 
whom  I  afterward  learned  also  writes  verses, 
and  fashions  sweeps  by  us — you  may 
take  me  home,  Mr.  Troitza,  if  you  insist." 

I  learn  for  the  first  time  that  a  "  test  "  is  a 
convertible  term  into  almost  anything. 

I  express  alacrity  and  delight,  and  drive 
the  poetess  to  her  door,  where  she  fully  com- 
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pensates  me  by  a  tender  pressure  of  my 
hand.  I  then  drive  to  the  Manhattan  Club 
House,  where  I  have  appointed  to  meet  some 
friends. 

Since  my  advent  in  America  I  have  met  a 
great  many  ladies,  ga  va  sans  dire,  most 
beautiful,  most  winning,  most  fascinating 
and  most  wealthy,  but  there  were  only  two 
who  specially  interested  me — these  were 
Miss  Remington  and  Mrs.  Fisher.  I  took 
them  to  be,  whether  erroneously  or  no  can 
only  be  proven  to  me  by  a  longer  residence 
in  this  country,  types  of  two  distinct  classes 
of  women  to  be  met  with  only  in  America. 
The  classes  are  many,  but  from  among  them 
I  elected  these  two  for  particular  study ;  the 
younger  a  specimen  of  the  clever  and  intel- 
lectual, the  elder  a  representative  of  the  emo- 
tional and  literary  ;  for  I  do  not  subscribe  to 
that  interpretation  of  the  two  w^ords,  intel- 
lectual and  literary,  which  makes  them  in- 
terchangeable. 

The  literary  lady  permeates  the  society 
of  New  York  thoroughly.  And  as  it  was 
a  phase  of  development  that  I  had  never 
seen,  I  desired  to  cultivate  a  more  intimate 
206 


and  Other  People 

acquaintance  with  it  than  casual  meetings 
in  drawing-rooms  would  permit. 

Mrs.  Fisher  appeared  to  me  to  embody 
all  the  most  salient  features  of  the  genus  to 
which  she  belonged,  and  she,  moreover,  did 
me  the  honor  to  smile  upon  me  and  my  re- 
searches into  the  American  female  heart. 

It  is  a  little  remarkable,  that  between  so 
large  a  body  as  the  literary  ladies  of  America 
— I  mean  literary-society  ladies — constitute, 
there  should  be  such  a  lack  of  good  feeling. 
It  is  absolutely  not  uncommon  to  hear  them 
designate  each  other's  verses  as  trash," 
while,  however,  they  perhaps  in  part  atone 
for  this  lack  of  praise  for  their  neighbor's 
productions,  by  the  lavish  meed  of  admira- 
tion they  bestow  upon  their  own.  So  long 
as  a  balance  of  favorable  criticism  is  main- 
tained, I  presume,  after  all,  it  matters  i;iot 
exactly  in  what  way  it  is  obtained. 

They  also  are  extraordinarily  generous  in 
describing  their  works  to  persons  like  my- 
self, strangers  to  the  country,  and  I  have 
been,  occasionally  in  the  course  of  one  even- 
ing, so  fortunate  as  to  receive  the  sources  of 
inspiration  for  their  latest  poems  from  five 
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different  ladies.  Likewise,  they  frequently 
read  their  compositions  at  evening  recep- 
tions. And  I  have  noticed  that  at  these 
times,  although  loud  in  their  expressions  of 
delight  to  the  obliging  inspired  one,  they 
invariably  give  vent  to  the  contrary  opin- 
ions not  five  minutes  afterward. 

I  called  upon  Mrs.  Fisher  and  found  her 
in  the  midst  of  her  labors.  She  was  indit- 
ing a  lullaby,  of  which  she  favored  me  with 
a  few  stanzas.  That  was  my  first  visit.  I 
called  upon  her  subsequently  very  frequent- 
ly, and  each  time  became  more  and  more 
interested  in  this  engaging  woman. 

Miss  Remington,  the  direct  opposite  of 
my  poetic  friend,  I  also  contrived  to  see  a 
good  deal  of,  and  became  quite  as  much  oc- 
cupied with  her  as  with  my  poetess.  I  re- 
marked that  Miss  Remington  was  clever; 
she  was ;  her  mind  was  quite  an  original 
one,  and  there  was  a  freshness  about  her 
which  I  appreciated  all  the  more  as  it  pre- 
sented a  marked  contrast  to  the  staleness 
of  some  other  ladies  whom  I  knew.  I  have 
also  said  that  she  was  intellectual ;  she  was ; 
she  had  been  endowed  with  a  brain,  and  she 
208 


and  Other  People 


also  had  been  gifted  with  those  unusual 
qualifications  which  permitted  her  to  use  it. 
She  was  not  in  the  least  executive,  but  she 
was  eminently  suggestive.  She  neither 
played,  sang,  recited,  wrote  poems,  painted, 
nor  did  embroideries,  yet  she  presented  to 
my  mind  the  picture  of  a  woman  capable  of 
suffering  much,  loving  more,  and  worth  a 
large  amount  of  investigation. 

I  encountered  in  New  York  any  number 
of  Maud  Madeline  Fishers,  but  very  few 
Miss  Remingtons. 

Another  pair  of  causes  which  largely  en- 
listed my  attention  in  behalf  of  these  two 
ladies,  was  this:  while  Mrs.  Fisher  con- 
ferred upon  me  the  sensation  of  constantly 
desiring  to  elude  her.  Miss  Remington  be- 
stowed upon  me  an  equal  assurance  that  she 
was  continually  escaping  me.  Thus,  thanks 
to  these  two  charming  women,  I  experi- 
enced, in  passing  from  the  society  of  one  to 
that  of  the  other,  all  the  pleasures  of  the 
chase,  both  those  of  the  huntsman  and  those 
of  the  game. 

I  sent  flowers,  fruits,  bonbons,  books,  to 
Miss  Remington,  and  always  found  them 
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The  New  Yorkers 


lying  about  the  drawing-room  when  I  next 
called.  It  would  have  pleased  me  far  more 
had  she  adorned  her  own  room  with  these 
slight  tokens  of  my  regard.  Mrs.  Fisher 
almost  always  suggested  to  me  various  little 
nothings  that  she  would  "  so  like  to  have," 
and  with  the  most  ingenuous  grace  would 
stop  in  our  walks  to  exclaim  over  the  beauty 
of  this,  that,  or  the  other  in  the  shop  win- 
dows. I  had  persuaded  Miss  Remington  to 
go  with  me  to  the  Park  a  few  times,  and  to 
the  opera,  and  the  poetess  had  experienced 
no  difficulty  whatever  in  presenting  to  my 
mind  the  delights  of  theatres,  Delmonico's, 
etc.,  etc. 

"  You  are  a  singularly  undemonstrative 
woman !  "  I  said  to  Miss  Remington,  one 
day,  when  she  had  said,  "  How  do  you  do?  " 
to  me,  in  her  customary  fashion,  with  no 
cordial  additions. 

"Do  you  think  so?" 
I  most  certainly  do." 

"And  why?" 

"  I  judge  from  my  observations." 

"  Ah  !  "  She  uplifts  her  very  handsome 
eyebrows.  "  It  seems  to  me  those  may  be 
called  limited." 

210 


and  Other  People 


"  Not  at  all.  I  have  seen  you  very  fre- 
quently, and  " — such  women  as  Miss  Rem- 
ington, do  they  or  do  they  not  know  the  pe- 
culiar temptations  they  present  to  a  man  of 
my  temperament? — this  little  hand" — I 
take  it  in  mine — never  has  deigned  to  greet 
me  with,  a  single  welcoming  pressure  dur- 
ing all  these  six  months  that  I  have  known 
you." 

She  raises  her  eyes  to  mine  with  that  dan- 
gerous look  in  them  that  I  have  seen  only 
once  before,  but  her  tone  is  very  quiet  as  she 
inquires : 

"Why  should  it?" 
Why  should  it  ?  "  I  echo,  in  an  irritated 
manner ;  "  because  I  think  I  deserve  a  little 
more  than  all  the  other  men  whom  you 
know." 

"  Why?" 

"  Because  my  powers  of  appreciation  are 
very  much  keener,"  I  respond,  after  some- 
thing of  a  pause,  as  I  raise  her  hand  toward 
my  lips. 

She  withdraws  it,  short  of  its  goal,  how- 
ever, rapidly  but  gracefully. 

"  Why  may  I  not  kiss  your  hand?  "  I  ask, 
petulantly. 

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Because  just  now  I  am  not  in  need  of  a 
new  sensation." 

Would  it  be  a  new  sensation  ?  Has  no 
man  ever  pressed  his  lips  upon  that  little 
morsel  of  unmelted  snow  ?  "  I  point  to  her 
hand  and  ask  the  question  for  the  reason 
that  I  hope  that  it  will  arouse  her.  I  con- 
fess that  I  would  like  to  see  Miss  Reming- 
ton's feelings  emerge  from  their  retirement. 
"  No  man." 

"  Is  it  possible !    Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  I  fancy  that  I  should  not  like 
the  contact." 

Fancy !  then  you  do  not  know.  You 
would  like  it !  A  woman  with  your  eyes  and 
mouth  craves  admiration  and  devotion,  and 
must  therefore  necessarily  like  the  outward 
expressions  of  these." 

She  flushes  slightly. 
Granting  your  proposition,  merely  for 
the  sake  of  argument,  did  you  never  find  that 
the  ecstacy  of  a  mental  emotion  far  exceeded 
its  physical  expression  ?  " 

Never.  I  have  tried  it ;  but  you,"  I  say 
softly,  acknowledge  that  you  have  never 
tested  my  philosophy." 

212 


and  Other  People 

She  remains  silent  and  motionless,  having 
that  rare  trait  among  American  young 
ladies,  the  power  of  letting  her  hands  lie 
quietly,  without  engaging  them  with  chains 
or  bracelets,  or  convenient  ribbons  and 
curls. 

"  Extraordinary  woman !  *'  I  say  at  last, 
as  I  lean  back  in  my  chair  opposite  to  her 
and  survey  her.  "  You  are  unlike  any  other 
of  your  countrywomen  that  I  have  met." 

"  I  believe  I  will  try  your  *  philosophy,'  as 
you  call  it.  Mr.  Troitza,  you  may  kiss  my 
hand,  and  I  promise  to  describe  at  once  to 
you  any  raptures  that  the  operation  may  pro- 
duce in  me."  She  extends  it  toward  me, 
and  I  press  my  lips  down  upon  the  bit  of 
cool  flesh,  certainly  with  extremely  different 
sensations  from  any  similar  case  in  my  ca- 
reer. 

"  Well  ?  "  I  bend  my  eyes  fully  upon  her 
lovely  face. 

Well,"  she  returns,  quickly,  "  I  am  wait- 
ing for  the  advent  of  bliss — Ah,  Mr.  Troit- 
za !  "  she  laughs  mirthfully,  "  you  find  my 
society  interesting  and  agreeable  principally 
because  I  am  unlike  most  of  the  other 
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women  you  have  met  lately,  and  yet  you 
have  done  your  best  to  make  me  as  much 
their  counterpart  as  possible.  Man,  man, 
you  sigh  for  a  saint,  and  when  you  find  one 
you  make  terrible  haste  to  convert  it  into  a 
sinner !  " 

"  How  is  it  possible,"  I  cry,  "  that  you 
are  so  totally  diverse  in  character  from 
Mrs.  Fisher,  we  will  say?  The  same  sur- 
roundings, the  same  education,  society  ;  gov- 
erning impulses  and  aims  must  be  identical 
in  a  given  age  in  the  same  land ;  the  spirit  of 
the  time  is  upon  you  both,  and  yet  you  alone 
of  all  the  women  I  have  encountered  here, 
are — what  you  should  be !    Why  is  it?  " 

"  You  forget  that  there  is  still  left  in  the 
world  individuality,  and  besides,"  Miss 
Remington  says,  with  a  slight  retrospective 
smile,  "  my  educational  surroundings  and 
advantages  were  wholly  different  from 
many  others.  Mr.  Troi'tza,"  she  says,  turn- 
ing her  full  sweet  eyes  upon  me,  do  not 
imagine  because  you  have  been  so  unfortu- 
nate as  to  meet  a  few  silly  women  in  New 
York  society,  that  the  nation  is  lacking  in  a 
substratum  of  sound  and  earnest  and  culti- 


and  Other  People 

vated  ones ;  it  is  an  idea  that  too  many  for- 
eigners run  home  with ;  it  has  its  founda- 
tion " — I  agree  with  Miss  Remington  as 
Mrs.  Fisher  suddenly  occurs  to  my  mind — 
"  beyond  a  doubt ;  but  as  you  have  done  me 
the  honor  to  say  that  I  am  unUke  others  you 
have  known  in  my  country,  rest  assured  that 
I  am  not  by  any  means  the  rarity  you  sup- 
pose." 

She  thus  always  withdraws  me,  by  a  sub- 
tle and  beneficent  spell,  from  the  region  of 
the  sentiments  and  gives  me  something  to 
think  of,  instead  of  something  to  feel,  as 
most  of  her  sex  are  too  prone  to  do. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,"  I  cry,  taking  in  the 
haughty  and  high-bred  grace  of  her  tout  en- 
semble, "  if  there  is  such  a  thing  as  an  aris- 
tocracy here?  All  the  classes  of  your  so- 
ciety ascribe  its  prerogatives  and  presence 
to  themselves,  but  does  the  ignis  fatiius  ab- 
solutely exist  in  America  ?  " 

Miss  Remington  looks  a  little  grave  and 
pauses  slightly  before  replying. 

"  In  the  broad  and  flagrant  sense  of  a  class 
who  can  trace  back  an  honorable,  moneyed, 
educated,  and  cultured  lineage  for  some  hun- 
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The  New  Yorkers 


dreds  of  years,  emphatically  no.  We  have 
no  such  class  in  America,  nor  do  I  think  we 
will  ever  have.  The  travelled  and  cultivat- 
ed men  of  yesterday  have  not  the  means  to 
confer  like  benefits  upon  their  sons  ;  the  rich 
man  of  last  year  leaves  the  poor  successor 
of  this ;  ours  is  essentially  a  country  of  ups 
and  downs,  Mr.  Troitza.  There  is  very  lit- 
tle stability  in  our  social  or  political  system. 
This,  no  doubt,  affords  my  coachman's  child 
the  possibility  of  a  seat  in  the  presidential 
chair.  It,  no  doubt,  makes  all  men  equal,  or 
indulges  them  in  the  fancy  of  supposing  they 
are,  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing  in  the 
end;  but  it  also  deprives  us  of  the  barest 
prospect  of  ever  attaining  to  the  possession 
of  a  pure  and  perfect  and  intelligently  cult- 
ured class,  which  should  be  worthy  the  name 
aristocracy." 

"  Thank  you,"  I  say,  earnestly.  "  But, 
Miss  Remington,  you  remarked  '  in  the 
broad  and  flagrant  sense.'  Now,  you  had 
some  reservation  there,  may  I  not  know 
it?" 

"  Well,  yes,  if  you  wish,"  with  a  smile. 
"  But,  Mr.  Troitza,  you  must  remember  that 
216 


and  Other  People 

I  am  no  authority;  I  only  look  out  on  the 
world  from  my  corner,  and  with  not  a  very 
strong  intellectual  lens.  Do  not  run  back 
to  Russia  and  quote  me." 

"  Precisely  what  I  shall  do — but  I  wait." 

"  I  think  that  we  have  an  aristocracy,  al- 
though it  is  a  very  narrow  and  almost  an  in- 
definable one.  Its  members  are  scattered 
over  the  entire  country,  perhaps  seldom 
meet,  but  they  know  each  other  when  they 
do ;  an  aristocracy  whose  claim  is  based  upon 
the  foundation  of  cleanness  of  spirit,  up- 
rightness of  action,  innate  refinement,  nat- 
ural intelligence  and  intelligent  culture,  gen- 
tle breeding,  and  gracious  behavior." 

"  You  are  princess  royal  of  that  small 
kingdom,"  I  say,  rising  and  extending  my 
hand.  "  Thank  you  very  much.  Miss  Rem- 
ington; I  always  leave  you,  I  think,  with 
the  feeling  that  I  experience  after  walking 
in  green  fields  on  a  fresh  spring  day — that  I 
have  had  good  done  me." 

Last  Tuesday  Mrs.  Fisher  insinuated  to 
me,  in  the  most  delicate  manner  possible, 
that  she  thought  a  moonlight  sleigh-ride  in 
the  Park  would  be  the  most  delightful  thing 
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The  New  Yorkers 


possible.  As  the  fair  poetess  had  several, 
not  to  say  many  times  before,  conveyed  her 
ideas  upon  this  subject  to  me,  I  felt  that  it 
would  be  unkind  to  delay  the  fulfilment  of 
her  wishes  any  longer  than  this  Friday.  Ac- 
cordingly I  drove  up  to  her  house  at  nine 
o'clock,  and  although  she  appeared  to  con- 
sider the  hour  somewhat  late,  I  assured  her 
that  the  moon  was  but  just  arisen,  and  that 
the  heavenly  beauty  of  the  night  was  per- 
fect. 

We  sped  up  the  avenue  and  into  the  broad 
and  beautiful  drives  of  the  Park,  where  the 
tall,  bare  branches  of  the  trees,  outlined 
against  the  dark  March  sky,  glistened  with 
their  burden  of  newly  fallen  snows. 

"  This  is  delicious  !  "  We  were  scudding 
along  at  a  rapid  pace  over  the  broad  Boule- 
vard, and  my  spirits — I  would  humbly  con- 
fess my  '*  bad  "  spirits — rose  with  the  in- 
spiration of  the  keen  and  magnetic  air. 

"  With  a  woman  like  you  at  his  side,  Mrs. 
Fisher,  a  man  might  be  contented  to  go  on 
thus  forever." 

Oh,  Mr.  Troitza,  you  make  me  think 
sometimes  such  strange,  strange  things." 
218 


and  Other  People 

The  poetess  glances  shyly  up  into  my 
face. 

"Not  unpleasant  things,  I  trust?"  I  re- 
ply, without  removing  my  steadfast  gaze 
from  her. 

"  No,  no,  happy  things ;  your  speech  at 
times  leads  me  into  a  region  where  the  joy- 
bells  ring  out  their  sweetest,  where  my  soul 
breathes  its  native  atmosphere  once  more !  " 

"  And  what  was  its  native  atmosphere  ?  " 
I  inquire,  tenderly. 

Ah,  inquisitor !  " — Mrs.  Fisher  beats  my 
hand  playfully  with  her  sealskin  muff.  "  An 
atmosphere  of  poesy,  romance,  ideality.  Do 
you  know  I  live  in  a  realm  of  rhyme,  Mr. 
Troitza,  where  all  is  heavenly  harmony  and 
where  but  seldom  the  harsh  voices  of  the 
outer  world  can  penetrate !  'Tis  true  I  go 
into  society,  but  it  is  only  to  please  my 
friends — while  in  the  glare  and  glitter  and 
false  show,  I  am  not  of  it ;  and  when  a  tone 
like  yours  mixes  its  music  with  that  of  my 
reveries,  it  seems  as  if  the  Hebe-cup  of  bliss 
were  full !  " 

"  Ah,  you  are  so  kind  to  me,"  I  murmur 
in  a  pathetic  and  unworthy  tone.      See,  the 
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moon  is  yonder,  high  in  the  heavens ;  but  of 
all  the  mortals  upon  whom  she  shines  to- 
night, none  so  happy  as  I !  " 

Maud  looks  at  me  as  though  perchance 
a  dim  wonder  forced  itself  upon  her,  as  to 
why  I  did  not  still  further  pursue  the  rosy 
path  of  pleasure.    But  she  said  : 

"What  time  is  it,  Mr.  Troitza?  I  fear 
me,  I  am  forgetting  all  earthly  things  in  this 
sweet  and  beneficent  communion ;  to  think," 
she  adds,  with  a  little  innocent  laugh,  that 
a  Russian  !  a  denizen  of  that  far,  fascinating 
land,  should — " 

"  It  is  a  quarter  to  one  o'clock  only,"  I  in- 
terrupt softly,  tightening  my  reins. 

"  What !  a  quarter  to  one,  and  I  out  in  the 
wide  country  with — with  anyone !  "  gasps 
the  poetess  convulsively. 

"  With  me,"  I  murmur,  in  gentlest  ac- 
cents ;  "  would  not  the  beautiful  winter's 
night  pass  quickly  enough  away  for  us,  fly- 
ing thus  with  the  wind  in  our  wake  ?  " 

"  Take  me  home !  take  me  home !  Dear 
Mr.  Troitza,  what  will  all  my  friends  say? 
I  entreat  you  to  turn  the  horses !  " 

Strange  that  my  demoralized  lips  frame 
220 


and  Other  People 

themselves  into  a  smile  of  singular  mirth  as 
the  poetess  wrings  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  why  go  home  when  this  exquisite 
lady-moon  invites  us  out?  In  what  better 
or  more  dehghtful  way  could  the  entire 
night  be  spent  than  thus — and  then  to  watch 
the  sun  rise  over  those  pale,  cold  hills — and 
a  turn  down  through  the  Park  again,  and 
breakfast  at  Delmonico's  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  never !  Ah,  Tancred !  "  The 
plump  arms  of  Mrs.  Fisher  are  cast  wildly 
about  my  throat.  "  Do  not  ask  this  of  me — 
this  wild,  erratic  performance !  ask  aught 
else — my  love,  my  heart — they  are  already 
yours — but  take  me  home !  " 

"  I  thought  you  would  enjoy  it  so  very 
much,'*  I  exclaim,  sorrowfully,  as  I  turn 
around.  "  It  seems  that  I  was  mistaken ;  ah, 
well ! " 

''Not  mistaken ;  oh,  no,  Tancred !  no,  no, 
I  only  dread  the  anger  of  my  sister;  you 
were  only  mistaken  with  regard  to  this  stay- 
ing out  all  night  driving  on  the  Boulevard, 
that  is  all." 

"  I  imagined  that  your  dreamy,  poetic  nat- 
ure would  have  revelled  in  such  an  open  de- 

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The  New  Yorkers 


fiance  of  the  fiats  of  the  prosaic  world.  But 
I  see  too  plainly  my  error,  and  can  only  crave 
forgiveness,"  I  reply,  dejectedly. 

"  Forgive  you  with  all  my  heart !  Have 
I  not,  in  a  moment  of  unguarded  weakness," 
the  poetess  says,  regarding  me  anxiously, 
"  told  you  the  secret  of  my  heart?  " 

'Twas  but  your  sweet  magnanimity, 
Mrs.  Fisher;  let  me  learn  in  exile  the  hard 
fate  I  have  brought  upon  myself." 

Never !  "  cries  Maud  Madeline,  with 
more  firmness  than  I  had  ever  given  her 
credit  for. 

"  Yes,  I  am  unworthy ;  I  will  prove  it  to 
you." 

"  Impossible ! "  clasping  my  arm  with 
both  fat  hands. 

"  Nay,  but  too  true.  Listen.  In  the 
Etruria,  which  is  to  arrive  next  week,  I  ex- 
pect a  friend.  I  ask  you,  as  an  especial 
favor,  to  accompany  me  to  welcome  that 
friend.  And  then,  if,  after  that  meeting — 
if  after  you  have  once  seen  that  other  Rus- 
sian you  still  preserve  these  tender  senti- 
ments for  this  one,  why^  then — " 

Ah,  tyrant,  you  desire  to  test  me,"  she 

222 


and  Other  People 

exclaims,  gayly  and  coyly.  But  what  an 
absurd  test !  the  mere  sight  of  a  man !  You 
reaUze  the  ridiculousness  of  it  so  well  your- 
self that  that  is  the  very — " 

Reason  why  I  am  so  willing  to  stand  it/' 
I  finish,  with  a  genuine  laugh.  But  here 
we  are;  you  have  a  night-key?  No!  But 
your  maid  awaits  you — ah,  so  fortunate ! 
Good-night,  fair  poetess,  and  sweetest 
dreams !  " 

Of  thee !  "  Mrs.  Fisher's  maid  is  evi- 
dently sleepy  and  takes  an  uncommonly  long 
time  to  unlock  the  door,  thereby  causing  an 
awkward  pause  between  her  mistress  and 
myself.  I  fancy,  no  doubt  without  the 
slightest  foundation,  however,  that  Maud 
Madeline  is  filled  with  a  variety  of  conflict- 
ing emotions — such  as  triumph,  dread  of  her 
friend's  anger,  gentle  wonder  at  the  non- 
demonstrativeness  of  her  attendant.  I  dare 
not  call  myself  her  lover ;  it  would  be  such 
a  vast  stretch  of  the  truth — and  tremulous 
hope  that  at  least  one  kiss  may  be  left  upon 
her  chaste  poetic  brow;  and  then  the  door 
opens,  and  I  consign  Mrs.  Fisher  to  the  care 
of  the  drowsy  servant. 

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The  heart  of  man  is  very  perverse.  I  re- 
member laughing  so  immoderately  while 
driving  my  horses  down  to  their  stable  as  to 
cause  a  policeman  to  stare  and  question  me. 
And  through  all  my  other  thoughts  crept  the 
hope  that  Mrs.  Fisher  would  encounter  at 
no  time  in  her  career  a  more  playful  native 
of  Russia  than  myself.  I  also  fancied  that 
perchance^  even  should  she,  she  would  stu- 
diously avoid  what  are  commonly  called 
"  hints."  However,  there  was  a  warm  cor- 
ner in  my  memory  for  her — of  course  there 
was !  Must  not  it  ever  be  so  with  any  man 
for  the  woman  who  guilelessly  tells  him  that 
she  loves  him,  even  although  a  demon — it 
must  be  a  demon! — whispers  to  him  that 
she  loved  him  to  that  degree  that  all  his  pos- 
sessions, money,  lands,  jewels,  and  horses 
were  almost  as  dear,  if  not  a  little  dearer,  to 
her  than  he. 

The  heart  of  man  is  most  perverse.  I 
spent  the  greater  part  of  the  following  Sun- 
day morning  in  reflecting  upon  Miss  Rem- 
ington, who  had  been  so  gracious  as  to  go  to 
Wallack's  with  me  the  night  previous,  and 
in  endeavoring  to  find  out  why  I  was  so  dis- 
224 


and  Other  People 

satisfied  with  her.  I  admired  her  immense- 
ly, but  at  the  same  time  could  it  be  possible 
that  I  would  have  been  better  pleased  had 
Miss  Remington  felt  and  acted  toward  me  as 
had  done  her  friend,  Mrs.  Fisher? 

Now,  not  only  is  the  heart  of  man  per- 
verse, but  it  is  froward  and  above  all  things 
loving  unto  itself.  It  wounded  my  pride  to 
think  that  Miss  Remington  had  never  be- 
trayed a  spark  of  feeling  in  my  presence — 
and  although  I  worshipped  her  integrity  and 
her  ladyhood,  I  was  very  much  dissatisfied 
with  my  ill-success.  Which  facts  go  to 
prove,  my  gentle  reader,  that  I  was  a 
mediocre  man ;  one  of  that  enormous  class 
who  help  to  make  silly  women  more  silly, 
who  are  not  worthy  to  associate  with  women 
of  Miss  Remington's  calibre.  They,  no  mat- 
ter how  long  the  intercourse,  are  still,  at  its 
close  as  much  on  the  alert  for  the  w^oman's 
defection  as  they  were  at  its  beginning;  fit 
only  to  flutter  about  drawing-rooms  and 
pass  away  unheeded.  And  yet,  Miss  Rem- 
ington could  always  find  her  way  to  my  in- 
tellect, and  therefore  I  must  have  had  one. 
She  carried  me  out  of  my  self-consciousness 
225 


The  New  Yorkers 


and  lifted  me  into  a  realm  of  light ;  but  I 
could  not  live  there  as  a  continuance  any 
more  than  I  could  have  comfortably  subsist- 
ed on  Mrs.  Fisher's  adoration  of  my  bank- 
notes. 

There  was  another  atmosphere  still  in 
which  I  breathed  with  completer  pleasure. 

I  sent  Mrs.  Fisher  a  handsome  watch  and 
chain  on  Monday,  thinking  that  under  the 
circumstances  it  was  no  more  than  that 
lady's  due.  It  was  but  a  meagre  return  for 
all  the  entertainment  she  had  been  generous 
enough  to  bestow  upon  me  during  my  ac- 
quaintance with  her ;  all  the  insight  she  had 
afforded  me  of  the  workings  of  the  feminine 
heart  in  this  dear  country.  I  found  it  and 
its  workings — a  very  singular  thing  to  relate 
— almost  identical  in  America  with  its  condi- 
tion in  other  civilized  lands. 

Miss  Remington  also  was  so  kind  as  to  go 
to  the  Fifth  Avenue  Theatre  with  me  on 
Tuesday  evening,  and  I  had,  perhaps,  never 
seen  her  more  animated  or  more  charming. 

On  Wednesday  I  received  a  dispatch  from 
my  friend  on  board  the  Etruria,  and  accord- 
ingly, post  haste,  drove  for  Mrs.  Fisher. 
226 


and  Other  People 

Very  soon  we  were  approaching  the  crowd- 
ed wharf  where  the  steamship  lay.  In  a 
few  moments  we  were  on  deck,  Mrs.  Fisher 
cHnging  tenderly  to  my  arm,  and  looking  up 
into  my  face  with  an  expression  which  I  felt 
to  be  indicative  of  possessive  interest,  while 
I  scanned  the  crowds  for  the  countenance 
of  my  friend. 

I  could  not  seem  to  become  fortunate  in 
my  search,  but,  lo !  instead,  I  beheld  the 
graceful  and  elegant  figure  of  Miss  Reming- 
ton. She  bowed  charmingly,  advanced  to- 
ward us,  and  with  that  odd,  dangerous  glint 
in  her  blue  eyes,  she  spoke : 

"  Good-morning,  Mrs.  Fisher !  good- 
morning,  Mr.  Tro'itza.  Ah,  you  see  I  have 
been  before  you ;  I  have  been  here,  or  rather 
there,'*  pointing  to  the  saloon,  "  for  half  an 
hour.  You  remember  my  mentioning  my 
Russian  schoolmate  to  you,  Mr.  Troitza  ?  " 
— I  bow  and  smile,  or  try  to — at  that  partic- 
ular moment  I  begin  to  grow  impatient  of 
seeing  my  compatriote,  from  whom  I  have 
now  been  separated  for  almost  one  year — 
"  Well,  she  has  arrived.  Mr.  Troitza,  shall 
I  not  take  you  to  your  wife  ?  "  Miss  Rem- 
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The  New  Yorkers 


ington  is  spared  the  trouble.  My  darling 
little  "  friend  "  comes  toward  me  with  both 
her  arms  extended. 

"  His  wife !  "  shrieks  Mrs.  Fisher,  and 
fortunately,  at  the  same  moment,  a  steam- 
whistle  performs  the  same  feat.  The  poetess 
shrinks  from^  my  side,  and  then  recovers  her- 
self sufficiently  to  be  presented  to  Madame 
Tro'itza,  and  also,  to  partake  of  a  most  sub- 
stantial luncheon,  a  little  later. 

"  You  would  not  rob  that  charming  little 
woman  of  her  husband?  "  I  say  tenderly  to 
Maud,  when  a  fitting  opportunity  occurs. 

She  laughs  as  she  tastes  her  partridge, 
and  taps  my  arm  once  more  so  playfully  with 
her  muff. 

Beyond  any  doubt,  when  I  told  Miss  Rem- 
ington that  she  was  an  "  extraordinary 
woman,"  I  spoke  the  profoundest  truth. 

The  Russians  are  an  almost  proverbially 
diplomatic,  secretive,  and  deceptive  race, 
but  this  young  American  had  exceeded  by 
far  my  wildest  conceptions  of  the  savoir 
faire  of  her  country.  When  I  reflect  upon 
her  chances  of  losing  her  secret,  I  am  wrapt 
in  amazement  that  any  well-regulated 
228 


and  Other  People 


woman  should  have  failed  to  make  use  of 
them.  When  I  recall  her  exquisite  tact  and 
delicate  honorableness  in  dealing  with  me, 
I  am  ready  to  prostrate  myself  before  her, 
and  to  divide  the  society  of  my  wife  with 
her,  which  I  am  obliged  to  do,  for  Zchica  is 
extremely  fond  of  Miss  Remington — Zchica, 
who  has  so  condescendingly  baptized  these 
records  of  my  only  disloyalties  to  her  white 
standard. 


229 


TWO  OF  A  KIND  AND  THE 
JOKER 


k 

o' 
a 
F 
w 

k 
k 

k 

see 


TWO  OF  A  KIND  AND  THE 
JOKER 


Smith  and  Ferradaile  met  at  the  corner 
of  Thirty-fourth  Street  and  the  Avenue; 
Smith  was  coming  down,  Ferradaile  was  go- 
ing up;  both  looked  radiant,  each  after  his 
kind.  Smith  being  a  half-score  years  the 
older,  bore  an  air  of  added  repression,  while 
a  new  light  shone  in  the  depths  of  his  eyes. 
Ferradaile,  who  was  barely  twenty-seven, 
walked  an  inch  taller  than  commonly,  and 
squared  his  shoulders  more  than  usually; 
he  had  an  enormous  bunch  of  violets  in  his 
buttonhole,  he  swung  his  cane  with  a  gentle 
swagger,  and  his  smile  was  so  very  obvious 
that  each  woman  he  met  felt  positive  he  was 
seeking  her  acquaintance. 

"  How  are  you,  old  chappie !  "  he  cried, 
seizing  Smith's  hand  and  wringing  it  with 
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The  New  Yorkers 


that  warmth  which  would  seem  to  include 
the  whole  world-full  of  men  in  its  hearti- 
ness. 

"  Famously,  my  boy ;  and  you  ?  "  returned 
the  older  man,  whose  grasp,  strange  to  say, 
whether  from  force  of  infection  or  no, 
savored  very  much,  too,  of  the  wholesale 
cordiality  which  is  usually  born  of  that 
ephemeral  spiritual  essence  called  "  happi- 
ness." 

I  say,"  exclaimed  Ferradaile,  "  turn 
around  and  walk  up  to  the  Windsor  and  dine 
with  me.  I  haven't  seen  you  for  a  good  bit ; 
where  have  you  been  ?  Come !  "  linking  his 
arm  in  Smith's. 

"  No,"  replied  the  older,  "  you  come  down 
with  me  and  take  potluck  ;  it  will  be  a  deuced 
deal  cozier.  I  haven't  seen  you  for  an  age. 
Come !  "  turning  Ferradaile  southward. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  reached  the  Cum- 
berland. 

Smith's  man,  a  treasure,  nominally  valet, 
but  one  of  those  occasional  jewels  who 
could  do  almost  anything  and  who  in  reality 
was  the  very  efficient  major-domo  of  Phil 
Smithes  studio  bachelor  menage — Smith's 
234 


and  Other  People 

man  then  opened  the  door  of  the  apartment 
for  them  and  drew  aside  the  tiger  skins 
which  did  duty  as  portieres  to  the  most  lux- 
urious painting-room  in  town. 

"  Mr.  Ferradaile  dines  with  me,  Bing- 
ham/' Smith  said,  carelessly.  "  Give  us 
something  uncommonly  nice;  and  by  the 
way  serve  it  in  here,  and  with  candle-hght." 

As  Bingham  bowed,  his  master  added : 

"  It's  too  infernally  warm  for  the  electric 
flare — or  I  say,  Bobby,  do  you  want  it  ?  " 

"  Anything  suits  me,  my  dear  fellow ;  I 
— 'pon  my  soul!  if  it  were  a  rush-light  or 
the  sun,  it's  all  the  same  to  me !  " 

Ferradaile,  as  he  relinquished  his  hat  and 
cane  to  the  amiable  Bingham,  glanced 
around  the  incomparable  room  with  its  ex- 
quisite moresque  ceiling,  its  marvellous 
hangings,  and  its  incalculable  treasures  from 
all  the  four,  and  the  other  unnumbered, 
quarters  of  the  globe. 

Conglomerate  as  it  was,  there  was  a  per- 
fection about  the  details  which  insured  a 
harmony  in  the  whole,  lulling  to  the  senses 
and  sympathetic  to  a  surprising  degree  with 
the  young  man's  present  mood. 

235 


The  New  Yorkers 


As  the  twilight  waned  into  a  rose-blue 
mist,  thrilling  in  at  the  southern  windows, 
with  the  wind  from  the  bay  all  sweet  with 
the  carnations  and  heliotropes  growing 
blithely  in  their  pots  on  the  sills  ;  as  Bingham 
lighted  the  candles  in  their  silver  sconces 
bracketed  about  the  walls,  silently,  too,  lay- 
ing his  cloth  and  silver  and  glass  and  that, 
Ferradaile's  eyes  followed  Smith  as  the  mas- 
ter walked  lazily  up  and  down  the  long  room, 
smoking.  The  younger  man  had  refused  a 
cigar,  with  a  smile  that  argued  a  secret  su- 
periority to  the  weed  and  its  allurements. 

Smith,  however,  smoked  and  blew  the 
greater  clouds  of  incense  as  he  passed  and 
repassed  in  his  saunterings,  the  big  easel  in 
a  certain  corner.  It  had  a  picture  on  it,  that 
was  clear,  for  the  square  of  the  canvas 
showed  through  the  draperies  of  some  East- 
ern stuff  that  shimmered  over  it. 

"What's  up?"  Smith  asked,  stopping 
short  before  his  guest.  Bobby,  I  never 
knew  you  to  decline  a  regalia  before  in  my 
life." 

"It's  before  dinner,  Phil,"  laughed  the 
boyish  fellow,  lazily.    "  I'll  spoil  your  menu 
236 


and  Other  People 

if  I  put  such  a  cigar  as  that  between  my  lips 
now." 

"  I've  seen  you  ruin  many  a  better  meal 
than  this  will  be,  before  to-day — don't  be 
unsocial  and  stupid  " — holding  out  to  him 
weed  and  match. 

"  'Tisn't  that,  Smith."  Bobby  rose  out  of 
his  depth  of  cushions  and  tufts  and  took  a 
quick  turn  up  the  room. 

"  Hang  it !  "  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  I've 
given  up  smoking,  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 
He  sat  down  again,  this  time  before  the 
piano,  and  rattled  off  a  few  bars  from  the 
Tzigane. 

"  Not  really  ?  "  Smith  went  over  and  laid 
his  hand  lightly  on  the  other's  head. 

"  Not  really  ?  "  he  repeated,  as  Ferradaile 
took  up  the  low  pedal  instead  of  the  high 
one.    "  Well,  Bobby,  tell  me  all  about  her." 

There  was  a  wonderful  depth  of  sweet- 
ness and  brotherly  love,  and  almost  of  com- 
passion, in  Smith's  voice ;  the  tone  of  a  man 
who  could  well  remember  the  curious  im- 
mature rapture  of  first  love,  and  over-match 
it  by  a  heaven's  height  with  something  bet- 
ter. 

237 


The  New  Yorkers 


Ferradaile  swung  around  on  the  music- 
stool  ;  then  he  jumped  up  and  dug  his  hands 
into  his  pockets  and  stood  with  back  to  the 
fire-place. 

Phil !  "  cried  he  softly,  in  a  queer  little 
hushed  way,  she's  just  an  angel,  don't  you 
know ;  and  what  she  ever  can  see  in  a  fool 
like  me,  God  only  knows,  I  don't." 

Smith  stretched  out  his  hands  and  locked 
Ferradaile's  in  them. 

"  My  boy,  you  can't  guess  how  glad  I 
am,"  and  the  look  in  his  eyes  told  what  his 
words  could  not  pretend  to. 

"  I  know  it,  Phil.  Hang  it  all,  there  isn't 
a  man  alive  I  look  to  as  I  do  to  you,  and  you 
know  it.  You're  the  first  person,  the  only 
person,  who  knows  it  yet.  She's  gone 
abroad ;  some  trumpery  notion  of  her  moth- 
er's to  buy  her  clothes  in  Paris,  I  believe; 
and  the  thing  isn't  to  be  announced  until 
she  returns." 

"  Gone  abroad,  eh  ?  "  Smith  said,  with  a 
lift  of  the  brows  which  was  singularly  sym- 
pathetic. "  That's  rather  hard  lines,  isn't 
it  now,  when  a  fellow's  just  won  his 
prize  ?  " 

238 


and  Other  People 

"  Should  say  it  was !  "  Bobby  groaned 
as  he  glanced  at  the  other  man. 

I  say,  Phil !  "  cried  he  enthusiastically, 
bestriding  a  reception-chair.  "  I  wish  to  the 
Lord  you  were  as  happy  as  I  am  this  night !  " 

There  was  a  little  pause^  which  Mr.  Philip 
Smith  occupied  in  a  very  brief  estimate  of 
the  definition  of  his  happiness,  as  compared 
with  that  of  his  guest.  Then,  with  a  slow 
smile,  tossing  his  cigar  into  the  grate,  he 
remarked,  not,  as  he  deemed  with  truth,  but 
with  complaisance  toward  the  other's  youth : 

"  Well,  Bob,  lam !" 

Ferradaile  bounded  from  his  chair. 

"No?"  he  cried,  under  his  breath,  put- 
ting his  two  hands  on  Smith's  shoulders. 

"  Yes,"  Smith  laughed,  nodding  his  head 
slowly  at  the  other's  incredulity. 

"  By  Jove !  "  Bobby  fell  back  a  pace  or 
two.  "  I  didn't  believe  the  woman  lived 
that  could  make  you  look  as  you  look  this 
minute." 

"  How  do  I  look  ?  "  inquired  Philip  quietly 
enough,  his  hand  resting  easily  amid  the 
folds  of  the  Eastern  stuff  over  the  picture 
on  the  easel 

239 


The  New  Yorkers 


Sort  of — sort  of  —  Jupiter!  I  don't 
know  !  transfigured,  I  suppose  a  poet  would 
call  it." 

Smith  laughed ;  he  was  one  of  those  men 
incapable  of  eloquence  on  emotional  occa- 
sions. Besides,  just  then  Bingham  entered 
the  room  with  his  tray. 

Presently  the  two  sat  down ;  Ferradaile 
with  his  back  to  the  easel,  Smith  facing 
it. 

They  ate  and  drank,  if  not  w^ith  gusto,  at 
least  with  relish,  chatting  of  this  and  that 
as  Bingham  served. 

When  they  were  alone  again,  Ferradaile 
was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  You  wonder  where  I  have  kept  myself, 
old  man,  for  the  past  month  ?  I'll  tell  you — 
down  at  Lenox." 

"Ah?"  Smith  glanced  up  interestedly 
as  he  set  his  glass  of  chablis  on  the  table. 

"  Yes,  her  people  have  a  place  there  and 
they  went  out  in  April ;  when  I  couldn't 
stand  it  any  longer,  I  went  down  myself, 
and  put  up  at  Curtis'.  Three  days  after  I 
arrived  she  made  me  the  happiest  man  that 
breathes.  Phil,  I've  worshipped  her  ever 
240 


and  Other  People 


since  I  first  laid  my  eyes  on  her  in  February 
at  Old  Point;  only  saw  her  for  three  days 
then ;  if  you  remember,  I  left  the  night  you 
arrived." 

I  remember  perfectly,"  Philip  said,  smil- 
ing, with  a  far-off  look  in  his  gray  eyes. 

"  She's  a  blonde — blonder  than  I  am !  " 
he  ran  on,  threading  his  white  fingers 
through  his  yellow  locks. 

"  And  her  eyes !  "  Bob  looked  up  at  the 
Moorish  ceiling,  helpless  of  words  to  de- 
scribe his  lady's  orbs. 

"  A  figure,  prettier  than  forty  thousand 
Venuses !  "  remarked  Mr.  Ferradaile,  cast- 
ing a  disrespectful  glance,  and  waving  a  dis- 
missing arm  toward  the  Milo  that  played 
hide-and-seek  with  the  palms,  at  the  far  end 
of  the  studio. 

And  better  than  all,  Smith,"  rising  and 
walking  up  and  down,  "  she's  true  and  pure, 
and  womanly  and  loyal." 

"  And  very  much  in  love  with  you," 
laughed  the  older,  good-naturedly. 

Ferradaile  stood  still,  and  there  was  a 
newly  born  reverence  on  his  bright  face  as 
he  answered  solemnly : 
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The  New  Yorkers 


"  As  there  is  a  heaven  above  us,  Phil,  I 
believe  she  cares  for  me  1 " 

Smith,  with  his  cigar,  took  a  turn  or 
two  across  the  room  and  paused  near  the 
easel. 

"  But  pshaw !  old  fellow,  I'm  too  egotis- 
tical by  far.  Tell  me — "  he  hesitated  a 
trifle;  "  tell  me  about  your  happiness."  He 
stood  facing  his  host,  in  gentle  and  friendly 
inquiry, 

"  I— don't  think  I  could,  Bob,"  said  the 
other  in  a  low  tone,  while  his  dark  face  bore 
upon  it  the  "  transfigured  "  look  which  Fer- 
radaile  had  noted  a  while  back.  "  I  think, 
and  believe,  and  know  God  never  made  a 
sweeter,  nobler,  lovelier  woman  than  the  one 
who  has  promised  to  be  my  wife.  This 
doesn't  begin  to  do  her  face  any  justice,  but 
there  is  a  hint  of  her  beauty  in  it — it  is  not 
quite  finished — I  show  it  to  you  first  of  all — 
no  one  else  has  seen  it." 

Smith  drew  the  Eastern  stuff  softly  and 
slowly  off  the  picture  on  the  easel,  looking 
at  it  himself  with  wistful  eyes,  so  full  of 
adoration  that  he  had  no  instant  remem- 
brance of  his  young  friend,  and  might  not 
242 


and  Other  People 

have  turned  for  a  minute  longer  had  not  the 
jingle  of  glasses  from  the  table,  against 
which  Ferradaile  suddenly  fell  back,  caused 
him  to  start. 

Bob's  blue  eyes  were  distended,  his  red 
lips  had  blanched,  and  the  pink  of  his  cheeks 
ashened;  his  hand  grasped  a  chair-back 
tensely. 

"  That !  "  he  gasped  hoarsely,  that  is 
Margaret  Howard !  " 

Smith  inclined  his  head  slowly,  looking 
at  Ferradaile  in  wonderment. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  you  have  met  her  I 
dare  say,  or  seen  her  at  least,  at  Lenox? 
They  were  there  for  a  while  before  they 
went  abroad.  I  follow  on  Saturday,"  he 
added  with  unaccustomed  communicative- 
ness, principally  because  he  was  lost  in 
amazement  at  the  attitude  of  his  guest. 

Bob  straightened  himself,  still  with  that 
grip  on  the  chair-back. 

And  you  say  that  you  are  engaged  to 
this  woman,"  looking  at  the  portrait,  "  Mar- 
garet Howard  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Bob,  I  am,  and—" 

"  Then  you  lie !  "  cried  the  other  wildly, 
243 


The  New  Yorkers 


letting  go  the  chair  and  staring  savagely  into 
Smith's  face. 

Ferradaile,  you  are  beside  yourself! 
What  the  devil !  "  catching  the  other  man's 
arm  and  holding  him  still,  as  he  really  be- 
lieved him  to  have  gone  suddenly  mad. 

What  the  devil  is  the  matter  with  you, 
anyway?  Sit  down  !"  He  seated  him  with  a 
thud.    "  Take  a  drink,"  tendering  the  glass. 

Ferradaile  took  it,  sprang  up  and  threw 
it  in  Smith's  face. 

You  are  a  liar !  "  Bob  whispered  under 
his  breath.  Margaret  Howard  is  my  prom- 
ised wife.  Here  is  her  picture  in  my  watch- 
case  ;  look  at  it ;  this  is  her  ring  on  my  finger ; 
these  are  her  letters  next  my  heart.  We  be- 
came engaged  just  one  month  ago  to-day, 
the  night  before  she  sailed  for  Europe !  " 

His  voice  was  thick  and  shaken  with  the 
passion  of  his  words,  as  he  showed  his 
proofs. 

Smith,  the  chablis  dripping  from  his  thick 
hair  and  beard,  stared  dully  at  his  friend 
during  the  fifteen  seconds'  time  occupied  by 
his  speech. 

Then,"  he  said,  crossing  to  a  carved  cup- 
244 


and  Other  People 

board,  opening  it,  and  taking  out  a  case  of 
pistols,  which  he  laid  on  the  table,  take 
your  choice,  sir — these,  or  rapiers,"  glanc- 
ing at  the  other  weapons  against  the  wall. 

"  No  man  can  call  me  a  liar  without  apol- 
ogizing." He  took  off  his  coat  and  vest 
very  quietly  and  threw  them  down  on  the 
sofa. 

"  No  man  can  impeach  the  honor  of  the 
woman  I  love  without  either  his  blood  or 
mine  being  spilled  on  the  spot." 

"  Apologize !  "  echoed  Bob,  scornfully, 
tearing  off  his  raiment  and  picking  up  a  pis- 
tol. 'Til  be  damned  first.  You  lie!  I'd 
stake  my  soul  on  the  good  faith  of  the  girl 
you  insult." 

Smith  bit  in  his  lip  to  the  quick  as  he  took 
up  the  other  pistol. 

"  If  you  will  kindly  pace  off  the  distance," 
he  said  in  a  perfunctory  way,  as  he  scratched 
off  a  line  on  a  scrap  of  paper.  "  And  if  you 
want  to  leave  any  word  for  your  people, 
there's  a  pen,  in  case  you  are  luckier  than  I 
and  lose  your  life." 

Philip  remembered  afterward  the  strange, 
hollow  sound  of  his  own  voice,  the  cool  feel- 
245 


The  New  Yorkers 

ing  of  the  chablis  on  his  head,  the  sputter  of 
a  spent  candle,  and  the  whistle  of  the  last 
postman  coming  up  shrilly  through  the  win- 
dows from  the  blurred  sound  of  the  mirth 
of  Broadway. 

"  Thanks ;  I've  nothing  to  write  about," 
returned  the  younger,  measuring  off  the 
room  and  taking  his  position. 

Smith  stood  by  the  easel. 

"  What  is  the  word  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Whatever  you  like,"  Ferradaile  an- 
swered. 

Name  it,"  returned  the  older,  still  in 
that  quiet,  dull,  dazed  fashion  of  voice. 

"  Let  it  be  one,  two,  three,  and  fire,  then !  " 
Bob  said  hotly. 

Smith  nodded. 

Another  candle  sputtered  to  its  end. 

"  One — two — three — and — "  Ferradaile 
was  prevented  from  finishing  by  the  en- 
trance of  Bingham. 

"  Beg  pardon,  Mr.  Smith,"  said  the  per- 
fectly trained  servant  in  his  well-modulated 
tones,  and  without  so  much  as  a  curl  of  an 
eyelash  betokening  surprise  at  the  scene. 

But  your  orders  were  positive,  sir,  to 
246 


and  Other  People 

bring  you  any  foreign  letters  the  instant  they 
came,  sir,  and  this  one  has  this  moment  been 
left." 

He  tendered  his  salver  with  its  freight  of 
the  square  big  envelope,  the  slant,  large 
handwriting  and  the  British  stamp. 

Bingham  retired. 

Before  he  had  quitted  the  room,  his  mas- 
ter had  torn  off  the  smooth  outer  envelope, 
and  the  satiny  inner  one,  and  held  between 
his  fingers  an  engraved  sheet  of  superfine 
paper. 

It  read  something  like  this :  "  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Lawrence  Bayard  Howard  request  the 
honor  of  your  presence  at  the  marriage  of 
their  daughter,  Margaret,  to  Colonel  Sir 
Lionel  Manning  Derringford,at  St.  George's 
Church,  Hanover  Square,  on  Wednesday, 
June  1st — " 

He  read  no  more. 

To-day  was  "  Wednesday,  June  ist." 

He  staggered  a  bit,  and  sat  down,  laying 
his  pistol  back  in  its  case. 

"  What  do  you  mean !  "  exclaimed  Ferra- 
daile  angrily,  nearing  his  host. 

Smith  looked  up  at  him  and  laughed,  a 
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The  New  Yorkers 


curious  laugh  like  the  echo  of  the  mirthless 
gurgling  of  a  lost  soul.  He  pointed  to  the 
smooth  sheet  of  engraved  paper  lying  on 
the  table. 

"  Read  it,"  he  said,  laconically.  And, 
while  Bob  picked  it  up  in  amazed  wonder- 
ment, Philip's  head  sank  down  between  his 
hands  and  a  sob  rived  his  heart  and  brain 
almost  in  twain. 

A  groan,  the  horrible  sound  of  a  curse  on 
a  man's  lips  for  the  woman  who  has  tricked 
him,  made  Smith  raise  his  head. 

Ferradaile  was  staggering  like  a  drunkard 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  turning  his 
weapon  on  himself. 

A  swift  plunge  and  Philip  had  wrenched 
it  from  him. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Bob ;  think  of  your 
mother  and  your  sisters." 

With  death  beckoning  him  and  pulling  at 
his  own  sleeve^  and  showing  him  a  short 
cut  out  of  his  own  wretchedness,  he  still 
could  plead  in  life's  cause  with  this  younger 
man  who  had  been  his  friend. 

Don't  want  to  think !  "  cried  the  other. 
"  Phil !  Phil !  what  in  God's  name  can  I  ever 
248 


and  Other  People 

think  about  again  ?  "  and  the  boyish  head  fell 
willingly  on  the  shoulder  of  the  host. 

"  Pull  yourself  together  my  boy.  Take  a 
drink."  He  poured  out  the  brandy  with  a 
somewhat  unsteady  hand. 

"  Drink !  "  repeated  Bob.  "  Old  man,  can 
I  ever  drink  under  your  roof  again  as  long 
as  I  live?  "  pushing  the  glass  aside.  "  You 
ought  to  have  knocked  me  down." 

"  WeVe  both  knocked  down  now !  "  Smith 
laughed  the  same  sorrowful  laugh  as  before, 
as  he  took  up  the  marriage  invitation  and 
stared  at  it. 

"  How  can  you  laugh?  "  Ferradaile  loos- 
ened his  cravat  and  collar,  and,  keeping  his 
eye  on  Philip,  reached  over  slyly  for  the 
pistol. 

"  God !  "  he  whispered,  having  got  it, 
"  and  she  was  so  sweet,  so  sweet !  There 
isn't  any  God — why  do  I  name  Him?  or 
any  heaven,  or  any  truth." 

Smith  leaned  over  and  laid  his  hand  on 
that  of  the  younger  man. 

"  Yes  there  is,  Bob.  You  are  young,  with 
years  and  the  world  before  you,  and  fair 
women,  too,  and  true  ones,"  taking  the  pis- 
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The  New  Yorkers 


tol  a  second  time  from  Ferradaile's  hand. 
"  You  will  live  to  a  happier  ending — while  I 
— well  Bobby,  here  goes !  " 

He  knocked  an  ugly  hole  in  the  portrait, 
ripping  the  canvas  whereon  the  lovely  face 
was  painted,  into  ribbons. 

"  May  the  Almighty  never  forgive  me  if 
I  trust  a  woman  again !  " 

He  drained  the  brandy  Ferradaile  had 
refused,  unloaded  the  pistols,  and  struck  a 
light  for  a  fresh  cigar. 

Come,  Bob,  my  boy,  it's  only  nine ;  get 
into  your  togs  and  let's  go  up  to  Koster  & 
Bials." 


250 


THE  EMPRESS  OF  AN  HOUR 


THE  EMPRESS  OF  AN  HOUR 


I 

It  was  but  little  after  dawn.  It  was  early 
in  the  month  of  June.    It  was  Paris. 

The  needle  of  Notre  Dame  pricked  the 
pallor  of  the  dawn  into  a  flush  of  rose. 

And  the  great,  gold  dome  of  the  Invalides 
shone  splendidly  beneath  the  first  sweet, 
warm  kiss  of  the  sun. 

Just  then  a  man  emerged  from  the  Rue 
Bayard  into  the  Cours  la  Reine ;  a  man  of 
medium  height,  in  the  dress  of  an  ordinary 
soldier.  His  cap  was  pulled  observably 
low  over  his  brow  and  his  coat-collar  was 
turned  up — perhaps  the  chill  of  the  morning 
was  disagreeable  to  him. 

He  walked  hurriedly,  casting  an  oblique 
glance  at  the  house  of  Francis  the  First  on 
the  corner,  and  then  pursuing  his  way  in 
haste  down  to  the  Place. 

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He  crossed  it  diagonally,  obviously  having 
in  mind  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  for  his  objective 
point. 

At  this  moment  there  came  tripping  out 
from  a  small  side  street  in  the  direction  of 
the  Madeleine,  a  young  girl. 

She  was  bareheaded.  She  had  on  shoes, 
but  no  stockings ;  she  carried  upon  her  arm 
a  little  satchel  full  of  vegetables  and  papers, 
and  what  besides.  Heaven  knows. 

She  was  munching  a  carrot  contentedly 
enough,  her  small,  sharp,  white  teeth  biting 
at  the  yellow  root  with  evident  relish. 

Yet  perchance  it  was  hunger  and  not  rel- 
ish after  all. 

If  the  soldier  saw  her,  which  is  unlikely, 
as  his  eyes  were  bent  upon  his  path,  he  may 
have  wished  to  avoid  her,  for  he  now  struck 
of?  in  an  opposite  direction,  crossed  the 
street  and  made  for  the  Tuileries. 

Not  so  fast ! 

The  girl  had  seen  him. 

She  gazed  at  him  for  an  instant  in  hesi- 
tation; then,  with  a  little  decisive  move- 
ment of  her  head,  she,  with  the  half  eaten 
carrot  in  her  hand,  flew  across  also,  and 
254 


and  Other  People 

by  a  dexterous  turn  in  another  moment 
brought  herself  face  to  face  with  the  sol- 
dier. 

He  glanced  up. 

If  there  was  the  least  vexation  in  his  face, 
it  was  immediately  lost  in  infinite  amuse- 
ment. 

She  was  now  looking  down,  blushing  also, 
and  with  a  curious  second  thought  about  to 
turn  and  flee,  when  he  spoke. 

Bon  jour,  Reine  Carotte ! "  said  the 
soldier,  now  regarding  the  girl  near  him 
for  the  first  time  with  attention,  and  as  he 
did  so  his  lips  contracted  somewhat  in  sur- 
prise. 

This  young  woman  bore  a  striking  resem- 
blance— which  had  been,  however,  frequent- 
ly enough  remarked  before  by  other  soldiers 
— to  their  Empress,  the  peerless  Eugenie  de 
Teba. 

"  Non  pas  reine,  mais  princesse,  tout  sim- 
plement  princesse!''  returned  she  rapidly, 
waving  the  green-topped  carrot  before  her 
with  a  not  altogether  ungraceful  motion. 

"  And  of  what  ?  "  inquired  the  soldier, 
now  apparently  thoroughly  amused. 
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The  New  Yorkers 


The  girl  leaned  near  to  her  companion,  so 
near  that  her  coarse  sleeve  touched  the  cape 
of  his  coat,  and  whispered  two  or  three 
words  in  his  ear. 

It  was  curious  to  observe  that  with  the  in- 
stincts of  his  birth  and  station,  this  French 
soldier,  starting  back  a  little  at  her  commu- 
nication, at  the  same  moment  brushed  with 
his  handkerchief  the  place  where  this  beg- 
garly maid's  gown  had  chanced  to  rub  his 
garment. 

"Tiens!"  he  exclaimed,  and  with  this 
monosyllable  they  continued  their  walk, 
reaching  the  Pont  Neuf  in  a  few  moments. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  Louis,  c'est  la  verite" 
quoth  she,  nibbling  again  at  her  carrot. 

The  soldier  at  this  point,  notwithstanding 
the  increasing  heat  of  the  sun,  pulled  up  the 
collar  of  his  coat  a  bit  higher  even,  and  his 
eyes  bent  upon  the  ground,  inquired,  in  a 
low  voice : 

And  for  whom  does  Mademoiselle  la 
princcsse  mistake  me  that  she  calls  me 
'Louis?'" 

"  For  no  one,"  she  replies.  "  I  know  who 
you  are.  Ami  Louis !  " 

256 


and  Other  People 

I  am  a  soldier  of  France,"  he  returns 
haughtily  and  impatiently,  quickening  his 
pace  a  trifle. 

"  Oh,  Caesar,"  whispers  she,  stopping  short 
and  leaning  a  Httle  over  the  rail  and  glanc- 
ing down  at  the  quiet  waters,  do  you  sup- 
pose that  a  few  metres  of  blue  cloth  and  a  bit 
of  black  pomade  " — she  here  touches  lightly 
with  her  finger-tip  her  eyebrows  and  upper 
lip,  and  chin — "  could  transform  you  into  a 
soldier  of  France?  " 

There  is  a  dangerously  derisive  emphasis 
put  upon  the  pronoun. 

He  now  stops  short  in  his  turn,  and  after 
a  moment's  hesitation,  joins  her  at  the  para- 
pet, an  amused  and  perhaps  an  anxious 
smile  playing  about  the  corners  of  his  in- 
scrutable mouth. 

Mademoiselle  has,  then,  but  little  respect 
for  the  Emperor?  " 

"  Oh,  when  one  remembers  Ham,  a  little 
house  in  London  that  we  know  of,  and  sev- 
eral other  details,  one  has  little  respect  left 
amid  a  chaos  of,  shall  we  say  astonishment. 
Monsieur  Louis  ?  " 

Evidently  piqued,  he  coldly  says: 
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The  New  Yorkers 


"  I  see  that  you  are  acquainted  with  his- 
tory, Mademoiselle." 

"'History!'"  laughs  the  girl,  half  it 
seems  in  raillery,  half  at  some  secret  of  her 
own  soul,  You  surely  do  not  call  yourself 
*  History,*  Ami  Louis  ?  Why,  you  are  only 
a  contemporaneous  episode ! "  cries  she, 
throwing  her  carrot-top  down  into  the  river, 
where  it  swirls  away  under  the  shadow  of 
the  arch. 

History  will  sum  you  up  as  the  second 
empire,  rien  dc  plus!  " 
He  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

II 

This  soldier  of  France  had  started  out  at 
eleven  o'clock  last  night  in  quest  of  adven- 
tures— in  quest  of  a  glimpse  of  Parisians 
among  themselves.  He  had  doubtless  en- 
countered some  surprises,  but  none  so  in- 
teresting as  this  one  which  now  stood  beside 
him  on  the  Pont  Neuf. 

"  And  being  a  soldier  of  France,  what  bet- 
ter could  you  ask  than  to  be  absorbed  in  her 
history — lost  perhaps,  eh  ?  " 

258 


and  Other  People 


She  laughs  again. 

He  turns  toward  her. 

"  Where  are  your  parents  ?  '*  brusquely. 

"  What  time  may  it  be  ?  "  she  asks. 

"  Perhaps  four  o'clock." 

"  Four  o'clock.  Well,  my  father  I  think 
now  wakens,  and  presently  goes  to  take 
his  coffee  with  his  majesty  the  Tzar,  my 
mother — " 

There  leaps  into  each  of  this  girl's  eyes  a 
Muscovite  demon — a  flash  like  the  lightning 
— vivid  and  terrible. 

"  Go  travel  thither  and  ask  of  your  im- 
perial brother's  minister  where  he  left  her. 
But  when  I  feel  the  sunshine  so  upon  my 
head,  I  believe  that  it  is  she.  When  I  hear 
kind  words,  she  utters  them.  When  I  see 
a  beautiful  object,  she  has  guided  me  to 
it." 

"  And  you  alone  in  Paris — who?  " — 
He  hesitates. 

"  I  do,"  she  says,  smiting  her  breast  light- 
ly and  proudly.  Oh,  I  was  provided  for ; 
put  in  a  convent.  But  I  ran  away.  Mon- 
sieur Louis,  I  begged,  and  stole,  and  walked, 
and  earned  my  journey  from  Petersburg  to 
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The  New  Yorkers 


Mecca — Paris  ?  That  is  two  years  ago,  and 
see  how  happy  I  am." 

"  That  is  saying  much,  to  say  that  one  is 
happy,"  he  remarks  carelessly. 

"  Perhaps,  but  there  is  more  to  come. 
Happiness  is  one  thing;  fame,  that  is  the 
other." 

"  Aha,  you  think  so?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  shall  know  how  to  climb,  too. 
Already  I  step  on  the  second  round  of  the 
ladder.  Why,  Monsieur  Louis,  already  I 
write  for  one  of  the  great  papers ;  they  be- 
lieve me  a  man,  and  so,  I  live." 

Her  face  is  flushed  with  the  royal  rose  of 
youth's  first  splendid  enthusiasm. 

"  Where  do  you  live?  "  he  inquires. 

"  So  high,  ami  Louis,  that  I  look  down 
upon  your  palace  chimneys !  " 

"  And  what  is  it  that  you  write  about  ?  " 

"  Politics,"  she  answers  succinctly,  with 
the  conclusive  audacity  of  twenty. 

He  smiles  grimly. 

"  The  very  subject  of  which  you  know  the 
least." 

"  Precisely — and  that  is  the  reason  that  I 
can  say  what  occurs  to  me.    If  I  knew  as 
260 


and  Other  People 

much  of  poHtics  as  par  example,  you  do, 
Monsieur  Louis,  perhaps  I  should  tremble 
and  say  nothing." 
She  laughs. 

"  Why  tremble?  "  queries  her  companion, 
readily  seizing  the  handle  of  suspicion  that 
has  been  thoughtlessly  extended  to  his 
grasp. 

Parceque — 

These  two  have  by  this  time  crossed  the 
bridge  and  have  already  turned,  by  a  com- 
mon instinct,  up  one  of  the  narrow  streets 
of  the  quarter.  It  is,  however,  the  young 
woman  who  leads  the  way.  She  has,  having 
her  home  in  view,  come  as  far  as  Notre 
Dame  itself,  and  here  she  stops  with  a  de- 
cisive air. 

"Parceque,  parceque?"  her  companion 
repeats  questioningly. 

"  Because  your  Parisians,  Ami  Louis, 
carry  always  in  their  pockets  a  clay  pipe  la- 
belled '  the  people.'  When  they  are  weary  or 
distrait,  which  happens  often  in  a  century, 
they  take  it  out  and  blow  from  it  the  bubble 
which  is  called  a  '  republic'  After  a  little  its 
rainbows  burst  into  spray,  which  strikes 
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The  New  Yorkers 


them  in  the  face,  and  behold  they  are  ready 
for  a  coup  d'etat,  shall  we  say?  Now  you 
know  why  I  said  *  tremble.'  " 

The  girl  turns  her  head  away,  hesitating- 
ly, and  would  perhaps  like  to  end  this  col- 
loquy. 

Her  companion  is  not  of  the  same  mind, 
and  as  he  speaks  she  seats  herself  on  the 
church-step  within  the  portico  where,  on 
Sundays  and  holidays,  the  old  man  who 
vends  rosaries  and  the  like  is  wont  to  take  up 
his  position. 

"  Nevertheless,"  pursues  our  soldier  of 
France,  leaning  well  in  the  shadow  against 
the  wall  opposite  to  her,  nevertheless,  the 
Emperor  is  the  third  of  his  line !  " 

"  Pardon,  ami!  The  head  of  the  Due  de 
Reichstadt  never  felt  the  weight  of  an  im- 
perial crown,  and  two  is  a  most  unlucky 
number !  " 

"  You  predict  the  ruin  of  the  Emperor  ?  " 
He  leans  toward  her  eagerly. 

What  shall  be  said  of  the  superstitions  of 
men  in  high  places?  Nothing,  save  that 
they  remain  inconsistent  facts  in  their  his- 
tories. 

262 


and  Other  People 


"  I  could  only  venture  to  predict,  Mon- 
sieur, with  pen  and  ink !  " 

"  But,  of  this  morning,  at  your  peril !  " 

"  Not  a  word."  She  finishes  his  sentence 
for  him.      Noblesse  oblige." 

"  And  you  will  call  His  Majesty — in  pen 
and  ink — what  ?  "  smiles  the  questioner,  as 
he  regards  his  vis-a-vis  with  his  cold,  critical 
and  beauty-loving  eyes. 

I  shall  say  that  you  are  a  magnificent 
usurper,  Monsieur  Louis." 

You  must  be  thanked  in  His  Majesty's 
name." 

He  takes  from  his  pocket  a  handful  of 
twenty-franc  pieces,  and  tenders  them  to  her 
with  a  matter-of-fact  air. 

"  Oh,  no.  Monsieur  Louis." 

The  girl  rises  with  an  air  of  instinctive 
dignity,  which,  however,  either  is  unob- 
served or  unheeded  by  her  companion. 

He  does  not  attempt  to  move  his  arm  an 
inch,  either  in  insistance  or  surprise. 

"  No,  I  say,"  she  exclaims  imperatively, 
and  rising. 

"  But  it  is  money,"  he  replies,  with  a  puz- 
zled elevation  of  his  eyebrows. 

263 


The  New  Yorkers 


"  For  that  very  reason,"  cries  the  girl, 
shaking  her  head. 

"  It  means  food,  clothes,  stockings,"  con- 
tinues he  imperturbably  and  not  stirring  his 
outstretched  hand,  as  he  regards  her  bare 
ankles. 

"  Take  it  away !  "  she  now  says  firmly. 
"  I  have  not  earned  it,  and  I  accept  no  money 
that  I  do  not  earn.  Don't  you  understand  ?  " 

If  your  Mecca  has  not  taught  you  to 
draw  silken  stockings  on  such  pretty  feet 
when  you  can,  parbleu!  it  is  no  afYair  of 
mine !  " 

He  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and  with  the 
awkwardness  of  doing  a  thing  for  the  first 
time,  returns  the  money  to  his  pocket. 

"  I  have  stockings,"  she  returns,  sullenly, 
"  but  they  are  for  a  later  hour  of  the  day, 
and  I  am  sure  I  have  shoes.    Look !  " 

She  shakes  her  small  foot  free  of  one  of 
these  as  she  speaks — a  monstrous  affair  in 
which  such  a  snowflake  might  easily  lose  it- 
self. 

"  Mere  Barbotte  gave  me  these ;  they  be- 
longed to  her  daughter  who  is  dead !  "  She 
crossed  herself  in  speaking. 

264 


and  Other  People 

"  Dead  men's  shoes,"  the  soldier  of  France 
says,  observing  her  with  an  air  of  increased 
attention. 

A  looker-on  might  possibly  translate  his 
expression  as  admiration — but  perhaps  a 
more  correct  estimate  to  put  on  it  would  be 
— a  mental  note  for  the  Chief  of  Police. 

Who  is  Mme.  Barbotte?"  he  inquires, 
his  mind  seeking  her  acquaintance  via  her 
daughter's  old  slipper. 

"  She  is  the  concierge." 

"  Aha ! — and  doubtless  you  live  in  this 
neighborhood  ? " 

She  remains  silent. 

"  And  I  may  do  nothing  for  you?  " 

She  looked  steadily  at  him. 

"  You  may  do  something  for  me,  Ami 
Louis." 

"  And  that  is?" 

Reassured  by  a  timidity  that  was  new  in 
her  attitude,  he  leaned  toward  her. 

I  do  not  wish  gold  portraits  of  you.  It 
seems,"  she  says,  shyly,  "  that  I  know  you 
at  sight  better  than  some  others." 
He  bows  his  head  assentingly. 
"  But  I  want — your  autograph !  " 
265 


The  New  Yorkers 


Aha !  "  replies  our  soldier  of  France,  re- 
flectively, instantly  resuming  an  attitude  of 
suspicion. 

And  what  will  you  do  with  it?  Keep  it 
to  light  a  little  fire  in  the  clay  pipe  which, 
peradventure,  you  carry  in  your  pocket  also, 
mon  enfant  f  " 

"  I  am  not  one  of  your  Parisians,"  she  ex- 
claims, hastily. 

"  No,  no — oh,  no !  by  no  means ;  but  you 
are,  perhaps,  one  of  the  Tzar's  nihilists, 
eh  ? "  The  soldier  flecks  from  his  collar 
some  imaginary  dust. 

If  you  like.  Ami  Louis.  It  will  give 
Ducrat  something  to  do.  Tell  him  to  find 
out.    But  the  autograph  ?  " 

He  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

"  If  you  give  it  to  me  I  shall  not  keep  it 
five  hours." 

"  Ah,  you  will  sell  it !  "  cries  he,  regarding 
her  lazily  with  his  light  eyes. 

Bah,  what  a  huckster  you  are !  How 
much,  par  example,  did  you  pay  for  your 
crown,  Ami  Louis  ?  I  sell  your  autograph  ! 
I !    I  will  show  you." 

The  girl  takes  from  her  satchel  a  small 
266 


and  Other  People 


reporter's  pad  of  coarse  paper;  she  also 
draws  forth  a  pencil,  and  resting  the  pad  on 
her  knee  she  writes : 

"  There !  Read,  and  then  go  and  look 
after  your  Parisians  and  nihilists  and  the 
rest." 

She  extends  to  him  the  piece  of  paper 
which  she  has  torn  off,  but  he  makes  no  mo- 
tion toward  taking  it.  He  merely  permits 
her  to  hold  it  while  he  reads : 

*To  M.  Regnier  : — 

"  Investigate  the  abilities  of  the  bearer  of 
this,  a  young  Russian  girl,  Mademoiselle 
Zalka.    If  she  have  talent,  instruct  her." 

That  is  why  I  desire  your  signature. 
Monsieur  Louis !  " 

"  Ah,  the  theatre— that  dream  of  all  the 
pretty  women  who  have  no  husbands !  So 
you  wish  to  be  an  actress  ?  " 
"  Yes,  that  is  the  fact." 
Why?" 

"  When  I  become  one,  you  will  be  an- 
swered." 

"  You  are  very  independent !  " 
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The  New  Yorkers 


Pourquoi  non!  Do  you  envy  me  that 
freedom  ? " 

Hold  the  paper.    I  will  sign  it." 
"  You  will  ?  "    Her  large,  fine  eyes  dilate 
with  excitement. 

She  hands  him  her  pencil  with  the  grace 
of  a  court  lady. 

There !  "  He  returns  it  to  her  with  a 
soupgon  of  her  own  grand  air. 

"  Now,  Mademoiselle,  I  will  say  hon  jour 
to  you." 

The  soldier  of  France  turns  on  his  heel, 
setting  his  face  toward  the  street. 

"  I  cannot  thank  you,"  murmurs  the  girl 
brokenly,  gazing  in  a  dazed  fashion  at  the 
fluttering  bit  of  yellow  paper  that  she  holds 
tightly  between  her  fingers. 

"  Perhaps  Paris  will  thank  me,  when  it  is 
a  vos  pieds! " 

With  a  barely  perceptible  inclination,  and 
the  touch  of  his  white  finger-tips  on  the 
brim  of  his  cap,  the  soldier  is  presently  lost 
to  view  on  the  place. 


268 


and  Other  People 


III- 

Once  out  of  sight,  however,  he  is  soon 
joined  by  a  comrade,  who  salutes  him  cour- 
teously and  receives  in  response  but  the  rec- 
ognition of  the  eyes. 

This  meeting  appeared  the  result  of 
chance,  but  if  one  had  been  less  absorbed  in 
the  movements  of  Zalka,  it  might  easily  have 
been  remarked  that  this  second  soldier  of 
France  had  not  once  lost  track  of  the  man 
at  whose  side  he  now  stood. 

"  I  have  a  cab  in  waiting,"  he  remarks. 

"  It  is  as  well,"  returns  the  other,  lacon- 
ically. 

Another  turn  and  tHe  two  men  find  the 
cab  standing  in  the  angle. 

The  second  soldier  starts  forward,  opens 
the  door,  and  his  companion  enters. 

Au  Louvre!^'  he  says  distinctly,  and 
therewith  seats  himself  beside  his  comrade. 

Sorry  to  have  kept  you  out  of  bed  an 
hour  longer,  De  Morny,"  remarks  our  sol- 
dier, leaning  back  and  pulling  his  cap  well 
over  his  eyes. 

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The  New  Yorkers 


"  Pas  de  quoi,"  returns  the  other. 
It  was  a  very  pretty  hour,"  and  the  gen- 
tleman addressed  as  De  Morny  smiled  pleas- 
antly. 

Did  you  think  so?    And  very  like?  " 

Her  Imperial  Majesty.'* 
''You  thought  that,  too?" 
"  I  have  eyes." 
"  True." 

"A  little  younger?" 

''  Oh — only  a  very  little ;  twenty  years  or 
so.  Apropos,  I  have  a  contribution  for  Du- 
crat's  note-book.  You  must  turn  to  the  last 
leaf,  however,  and  the  last  letter — Z." 

De  Morny  takes  out  a  note-book  of  his 
own,  and  a  pencil  also. 

He  glances  up. 

"  Zalka,"  says  the  soldier  of  France,  la- 
conically. 

"Aha!  Russian?" 

*'  Precisely.  Quartier  Latin.  A  resem- 
blance to  Her  Majesty.  A  journalist.  Has 
in  her  possession  my  signature  attached  to 
a  note  to  Regnier,  of  the  Frangais." 

M.  de  Morny,  having  presumably  written 
what  has  been  dictated  to  him,  closes  his 
270 


and  Other  People 

little  book  with  a  snap  and  replaces  it  in  his 
pocket. 

IV, 

Four  or  five  years  are  as  many  wonder- 
workers. 

It  is  extremely  probable  that  when  our 
"  Soldier  of  France,"  on  a  certain  morning 
a  long  time  ago  now,  ironically  remarked 
that  Paris  might  render  the  thanks  to  him, 
which  at  the  moment  Zalka  found  herself 
incapable  of  offering — when  Paris  should  be 
"  a  ses  pieds  " — he  had  httle,  if  any,  idea 
of  the  fulfilment  of  his  words. 

But  so  it  was. 

Paris  was  at  the  feet  of  the  extraordinary 
young  Russian. 

Her  beauty  was  the  reigning  toast. 

But  of  this  beauty  but  little  was  said  in  de- 
tail. 

Zalka's  resemblance  to  the  Empress  was 
not  remarked — in  print.  It  was  no  doubt 
spoken  of  twenty  times  a  day  on  the  boule- 
vards, at  the  clubs,  in  the  foyers,  and  else- 
where. 

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The  New  Yorkers 


Perchance  these  whispers  had  reached  the 
ears  of  the  lady  of  the  Tuileries,  even  if 
they  had  not  travelled  around  the  world 
on  the  electric  wings  of  the  telegraphic 
wires. 

Her  Majesty  had  been  seen  twice  only  in 
the  royal  loge,  upon  occasions  when  the 
reigning  favorite  appeared. 

Perchance  also  some  other  rumors,  as  dis- 
tasteful, had  made  their  insidious  way  with- 
in the  palace  walls.  This,  however,  is  not  to 
the  point. 

Zalka  had  lifted  to  her  lips  the  goblet  that 
was  brimming  over  with  that  "  other  thing," 
— fame. 

Had  she,  perhaps,  found  that  the  old  crys- 
tal draught  of  mere  "  happiness  "  mixed  not 
well  with  this  new  rich  wine  that  she 
quaffed? 

Who  can  say? 

To-night  we  find  her  after  the  theatre 
at  her  hotel  in  the  Rue  de  Villiers,  presiding 
at  one  of  those  little  midnight  suppers  for 
which  her  dining-room  was  already  fa- 
mous. 

It  was  the  spring-time  of  the  year,  and 
272 


and  Other  People 

therefore  the  long  windows  being  wide  open 
gave  delicious  glimpses  of  the  garden. 

It  was  a  noticeably  elegant  room. 

"  Tiens!''  Zalka  had  cried  on  her  return 
from  the  theatre  that  night — of  all  her  tro- 
phies, a  small  wreath  of  fresh  laurel,  hang- 
ing on  her  round  arm.  "  Tiens!  laurel 
wreaths  for  the  master;  they  have  almost 
buried  me  in  flowers,  my  public,  and  that 
was  kind  of  them,  but  this  was  a  mistake ;  it 
never  was  intended  for  the  actress  or  for 
Marguerite  Gautier  but  for  her  creator !  " 

And,  with  a  movement  of  gracious  ease 
she  laid  the  wreath  upon  the  brow  of  Mon- 
sieur Alexandre,  who,  by  this  time,  with 
several  others,  was  already  seated  at  the 
board. 

His  strong  brown  face,  with  its  long  blond 
m.ustache,  light  eyebrows  and  hair,  pre- 
sented an  oddly  picturesque  appearance. 

Shrugging  his  broad  shoulders  with  an 
air  of  deprecation,  he  raised  Zalka's  hand  to 
his  lips. 

'*  I  will  let  it  stay.  Mademoiselle.    I  will 
not  spoil  the  prologue  to  your  idyl  of  the 
supper-table.    But  will  you  permit  me  to 
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The  New  Yorkers 


say  that  until  to-night  I  had  never  met  or 
known  my  '  dame  aux  Camehas?  '  " 

Loud  and  heartfelt  applause  followed  the 
little  speech  of  Monsieur  Alexandre. 

A  remarkable  performance,  most  re- 
markable !  "  murmured  the  little,  nervous 
gentleman,  who  at  this  moment  raised  to  his 
lips  a  glass  of  Burgundy,  and  also  nearly 
twisted  his  head  off  in  his  vain  effort  to  dis- 
cover whence  came  the  draught  which  he 
imagined  he  felt. 

Helas!  Monsieur  Victoire  had  a  familiar 
demon — a  draught — of  whom  he  dwelt  in 
perpetual  awe. 

"  Remarkable,  indeed !  "  echoed  Louis 
Napoleon,  as,  with  his  slow  smile,  he  filled 
the  glass  of  the  young  actress  beside  whom 
he  sat. 

"  But  wasted,  wasted !  "  continues  M. 
Victoire,  with  an  involuntary  shudder,  as 
he  rises  and  closes  the  window  at  his  back. 

Wasted,  wasted  ?  "    A  chorus  questions 
him  with  one  voice. 
"  How,  how?  " 
Bah  !  bah ! returns  he,  helping  himself 
to  a  bit  of  fowl. 

274 


and  Other  People 


"  You  do  not  care  to  know.  Why  do  you 
ask?  All  you  care  for  is  that  the  drama, 
which  the  Republic  prohibited,  has  been  set 
before  you  through  the  instrumentality  of  a 
gentleman  who  is  to-night  my  vis-a-vis — the 
Due  de  Morny." 

The  little  group  grew  enthusiastic  over 
this. 

And  wasted?"  queried  His  Grace,  ac- 
knowledging the  compliment  with  a  simul- 
taneous side  glance  at  the  Emperor. 

Because  Marguerite  Gautier  is  an  ex- 
ceptional product  of  an  Imperial  era,  she  and 
women  of  her  type  are  prey,  prey  for  such 
pens  as  my  friend  M.  Alexandre's  to  prick 
into  pungency  for  the  palates  of  Paris. 
Hold,  hold !  "  cries  the  little  nervous  man, 
rising  with  his  fork  full  of  chicken  in  one 
hand,  while  with  the  other  he  turns  down 
the  collar  of  his  chestnut  colored  coat. 

"  That  woman  there,"  he  nods  toward 
Zalka,  who,  having  both  her  elbows  on  the 
table,  regards  him  steadfastly.  "  She  is  not 
born  to  represent  chimeras  and  excrescen- 
ces ;  she  is  a  Cleopatra,  and  my  friend  M. 
Alexandre  would  make  of  her  a  grisette. 
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The  New  Yorkers 


I  tell  you,"  cries  the  little  gentleman,  un- 
daunted by  Imperial  frowns  or  the  ironical 
smiles  of  the  laurel-crowned  author,  Zalka 
is  an  era  in  herself.  One  must  write  up  to 
Zalka,  and  not  ask  Zalka  to  descend  the  stair- 
case to  pick  up  the  spent  rags  of  a  worn-out 
and  reckless  nature." 

Zalka's  eyes  have  not  moved ;  neither  do 
they  now  when  M.  Alexandre  says,  suavely : 

"  Ah,  it  is  most  likely  M.  Victoire  is  in  the 
right.  I  am  no  critic ;  M.  Victoire  is  merci- 
less." 

With  an  ingenuous  smile  he  lifts  the  lau- 
rel wreath  from  his  blond  head. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  continues,  turning  to 
the  actress,  permit  me  to  return  to  you 
your  prologue." 

"  Ah,  Monsieur !  "  she  says.  "  See !  We 
will  give  it  to  Moliere !  "  She  runs  lightly 
across  the  room  and  places  it  upon  a  bust  of 
the  poet. 

"  Now  that  my  prologue  has  proved  a  fail- 
ure, who  will  write  for  me  the  lyric  of  my 
petit  sonper?    Ah,  I  am  very  unfortunate  !  " 

"  It  should  be  M.  Victoire,"  the  Emperor 
remarks. 

276 


and  Other  People 


Assuredly.  He  seems  to  think  that  he 
knows  what  would  best  fit  you/'  murmurs 
De  Morny,  carelessly. 

"  Monsieur  le  Due  is  right,"  says  the  little 
man.    "  I  do  know." 

"  And  it  is?  "  queries  His  Majesty,  lifting 
a  decanter  with  leisurely  examination  as  he 
turns  it  to  the  glow  of  the  candelabra  nearest 
him. 

"  It  is  life— love— loss." 

"  *  La  Dame  aux  Camelias  '  in  three  acts 
and  three  words ! "  interrupts  a  clever 
young  journalist,  then  in  high  vogue. 

Surely !  "  exclaims  Monsieur  Alexan- 
dre, with  a  sarcastic  smile. 

"  We  have  a  new  perfume.  Publish  it  on 
the  boulevards,  Messieurs,  without  delay. 
It  is  the  concentrated  essence  of  camelias." 
The  young  journaHst  laughs,  as  do  the  rest. 

Except  Zalka. 

Her  eyes  wander  restlessly  from  the  face 
of  Monsieur  Victoire  to  the  clock  in  the  cor- 
ner. 


277 


The  New  Yorkers 


V 

Already  the  hands  point  to  the  half  hour 
after  midnight. 

Monsieur  has,  perhaps,  concluded  his 
illustration  in  chemistry?  "  queries  M.  Vic- 
toire,  with  a  grim,  sardonic  little  smile, 
which  is  not  altogether  nectar  to  the  soul  of 
the  popular  young  journalist. 

This  witty  person  bows  profoundly. 
Life,  love,  loss,"  repeats  the  little  man 
in  a  voice  of  intense  pathos.  "  Life  which 
is  not  an  existence  of  disease,  but  a  blissful 
period  when  every  pulse  throbs  to  the  double 
measure  of  youth  and  health,  when  hope 
holds  the  helm  and  honor  sits  at  the  prow." 

His  Majesty  glances  up  as  he  puts  down 
the  decanter  of  golden  cordial. 

Zalka  turns  again  her  restless  eyes  to  the 
clock. 

"  Love,"  continues  M.  Victoire,  growing 
more  eloquent  as  he  notes  about  him  that 
applause  dearest  to  a  speaker's  heart — si- 
lence most  profound. 

"  Love,  which  is  not  an  unwholesome 
278 


and  Other  People 


fever — an  epoch  of  sense  versus  soul — but  a 
little  piece  of  the  purity  of  heaven  wooed 
down  to  earth  by  the  aspiration,  exalta- 
tion, and  impassionment  of  two  of  God's 
creatures.  Love/'  murmurs  M.  Victoire,  in 
a  low  and  tremulous  tone — "  Love,  which  is 

not  a  moral  and  spiritual  wreck  "  He 

turns  pitilessly  toward  Monsieur  Alexandre. 
''But  a  fire  !" 

The  enthusiastic  and  popular  young  jour- 
nalist swore  next  day  that  he  involuntarily 
started,  expecting  to  see  a  burning  bush 
spring  into  flame  at  the  terrible  emphasis 
of  the  nervous  little  man's  voice. 

"  Fire  which  scorches  and  singes  the  soul 
to  ashes  the  agony  whose  only  solace  is  that 
long  rest  upon  the  bosom  of  Nature ;  earth 
to  earth,  that  brown  bed,  full  of  comfort, 
which  we  call  the  grave,  and  above  which 
we  place  a  stone  and  write  upon  it  '  Resur- 
rection.' " 

There  was  a  moment's  hush. 

And  then  wild  applause. 

Be  it  remembered  that  Monsieur  Alexan- 
dre, with  much  grace  of  manner,  made  also 
the  most  noise. 

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The  New  Yorkers 


That  is  the  drama  I  will  one  day  write 
for  Zalka — for  Zalka,"  cries  the  little  man, 
interrupting  himself.  "  Pshaw  !  It  will  be 
Zalka." 

And  Zalka  caught  the  thin  hand  on  its  way 
to  the  coat  collar,  and  laid  her  young  lips 
lightly  on  it  in  token  of  her  appreciation. 

It  may  be  imagined  that  all  the  tongues 
about  the  table  were  by  this  time  untied. 

"  You  lay  your  lips  upon  that  little  man's 
hand,"  the  Emperor  says,  his  voice  lost  to 
all  ears  but  Zalka's  in  the  general  talk  and 
laughter. 

**  Pourquoi  non? "  she  answers  gayly. 
"  Monsieur  Victoire  is  a  genius ;  one  must 
pay  tribute  to  genius." 

"  And  to  Caesar?  "  whispers  he. 

"  His  due." 

"  Which  is,  par  example?  " 
"  Taxes,"  laughs  she,  leaning  back  in  her 
chair. 

^*Bah!    What  a  fool  I  am!" 
"  Oh,  no.  Ami  Louis.    Indeed,  I  think 
you  very  wise." 
"Why  so?'' 

"  Because  you  have  known  how  to  manage 
280 


and  Other  People 

your  French  people  for — how  long  is  it? 
twenty  years  and  over." 

"  Is  that  all?" 

**  It  is  enough." 

The  Emperor  for  a  moment  leaned  back 
in  his  chair  also ;  for  a  brief  time  his  curious 
eyes  seemed  to  have  turned  inward  and  away 
from  the  scene  before  him. 

With  a  possibly  unconscious  movement 
the  hand  which  hung  Hstlessly  over  the 
arm  of  his  seat  touched  the  folds  of  Zalka's 
robe,  and  the  fingers  caught  eagerly  at  the 
soft  white  stuffs. 

VI 

Without  doubt  the  admiration  of  His 
Majesty  for  the  young  Russian  was  known 
throughout  Paris  and  beyond.  But  equally 
without  question  it  was  known  that  Zalka 
evinced  no  preference  for  the  ruler  of 
France  above  any  other. 

She  had  baffled  him. 

He  whose  pleasurable  game  it  had  been 
to  baffle  Europe  found  himself  completely 
mystified  by  this  young  woman. 

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She  treated  him  only  with  the  old  air  of 
camaraderie  and  raillery  which  had  arrested 
the  attention  of  the  "  Soldier  of  France  "  on 
the  morning  of  their  first  meeting. 

Was  she  laughing  at  him  ? 

He  did  not  know. 

Perhaps  Ducrat  did.  He  could  afford  to 
rely  on  Ducrat.  Meantime  it  is  sufficient 
that  to  himself  he  said  that  he  loved  her. 

And  suspected  her? 

Ah !  But  he  was  the  man  of  '48 ;  the 
man  of  many  vicissitudes.  Suspicion's  own 
darling  child.  Therefore  it  is  possible  that 
he  did  love  the  Russian,  as  he  was  capable 
of  loving. 

"  Well,  well !  "  he  at  last  ejaculated,  "  time 
is,  after  all,  man's  best  tool  and  best  assist- 
ant." 

"  Monsieur  Louis  thinks  that  in  time, 
what?"  questions  Zalka,  rising  and  folding 
her  hands  behind  her  as  she  paces  nervously 
up  and  down  the  room  once  or  twice. 
In  time  I  shall  attain  what  I  crave." 

**  Which  is  ?  "    She  stops  short,  with 

her  eyes  involuntarily  fixed  upon  Buhl's 
great  timepiece. 

282 


and  Other  People 

"  That  which  time  alone  can  give  me !  " 
the  Emperor  mutters  under  his  breath  as  he 
also  rises. 

Believe  me,  ami  Louis,"  she  replies, 
shaking  her  head,  "  man  craves  only  the  un- 
attainable I  " 

He  smiles  dreamily  as  he  looks  at  her. 
He  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

Mademoiselle,  I  take  my  leave  of  you." 
His  Majesty  steps  toward  the  vestibule. 

De  Morny  rises,  as  do  the  other  guests 
who  may  chance  to  have  been  seated. 

Ceremony  of  a  certain  kind  was  dispensed 
with  at  these  reunions,  and  the  Emperor  was 
here  treated  as  incognito  by  his  own  com- 
mand. 

"  Not  yet,"  Zalka  exclaims,  following  him 
with  eagerness.    "  Not  so  soon  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  first  time  that  you  ever  desired 
my  visit  prolonged,"  he  responds,  half  in 
pleasure,  half  in  suspicion. 

"  It  may  be,"  she  says,  "  there  must  come 
a  first  time  for  anything ;  is  it  not  so?  " 

"  But  I  am  to  be  at  the  palace  to  open  the 
ball  at  half-past  one — it  is  now  almost  the 
quarter." 

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"  Give  us  the  other  quarter." 
"  Impossible." 

"  Let  them  wait,"  Zalka  says,  with  plead- 
ing eyes,  laying  her  finger-tips  lightly  on  the 
hat  which  he  holds. 

"  It  is  impossible.  The  affair  is  one  of 
state.  Already  it  is  cabled  round  the  world, 
Zalka!"  His  Majesty  takes  a  few  fur- 
ther steps — as  they  both  stand  in  the  blaze 
of  the  candles,  amid  the  hum  of  many 
voices. 

He  has  uttered  but  her  name  with  his  lips. 

With  his  cold,  strange,  suspicious  eyes, 
what  other  language  has  His  Imperial  Maj- 
esty spoken  ? 

"  Ami  Louis,  you  will  give  us  this  quarter 
of  an  hour — ce  maiivais  quart  d'heure — as  a 
favor." 

Her  voice  is  clear  and  high,  and  innocent 
as  a  child's. 
He  starts  back. 

"  Non''  Napoleon  says,  curtly.  "Non, 
impossible/* 

He  turns  on  his  heel. 

At  the  same  instant  Zalka  makes  a  false 
step,  perchance,  and,  with  a  crash,  the  great 
284 


and  Other  People 

gilded  candelabra  falls  to  the  ground  behind 
her. 

Its  hundred  candles  are  scattered  far  and 
wide,  setting  fire  to  rugs  and  napkins,  and 
dashing  fruits  and  ices,  epergnes  and  gob- 
lets in  all  directions. 

In  a  moment  all  is  confusion,  and  while 
De  Morny  is  assisting  the  others  in  stamping 
out  the  little  blazes  here  and  there,  His  Maj- 
esty has  caught  Zalka  in  her  fall  and  sup- 
ported her  to  a  sofa. 

No  one  thinks  of  anything  for  the  next 
fifteen  minutes  save  the  accident. 

The  ladies  scream  prettily  and  rehearse 
their  sensations. 

Servants  run  hither  and  thither  remov- 
ing the  debris,  and  the  men  laugh  and  chat, 
and  console  their  companions  for  the  holes 
in  their  gowns,  or  the  wine-stains  and  wax 
upon  their  laces. 

The  "  mauvais  quart  d'heure  '*  has  slipped 
away. 

By  the  tall  clock  in  the  corner  His  Majesty 
should  now  have  been  at  the  Tuileries,  bow- 
ing low  over  the  hand  of  Mme.  de  Metter- 
nich. 

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A  servant  enters. 

''Madame,"  whispers  he,  in  a  frightened 
tone,  "  someone  is  without  who  insists  upon 
seeing  you.    I  am  unable  to  " 

A  gendarme  also  enters,  cutting  short  the 
footman's  rambling  announcement. 


VII 

There  is  now  a  profound  silence  in  the 
apartment. 

"  Madame  Zalka  Orloff,"  reads  he  from 
a  slip  of  paper  in  his  hand. 

Zalka  rises  and  inclines  her  head. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  Monsieur?  " 

"  Come  with  me  at  once,"  replies  the  man 
succinctly. 

Several  of  the  men  start  forward,  and 
again  these  ladies  begin  their  pretty  screams. 

"  Thanks,  Messieurs,"  she  says,  waving 
them  back  with  dignity. 

"  You  have  doubtless  a  warrant  for  my 
arrest.  Monsieur  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Madame,  it  is  here  "  (the  officer 
presents  her  with  the  paper). 

286 


and  Other  People 

Zalka  eagerly  scans  it. 

"  Aha — very  well !  Monsieur,  there  is 
your  warrant.  I  refuse  to  go !  "  She  folds 
her  arms  and  looks  upon  the  ground. 

"  Then,  Madame,  it  becomes  necessary  to 
force  you." 
Stop!" 

The  Emperor  steps  from  the  shadow  of 
the  curtains,  where  he  has  been  standing, 
and  utters  the  word  in  a  voice  that  is  not  to 
be  misunderstood. 

From  whom  do  you  come?  By  whose 
order?" 

"  By  the  order  of  M.  Ducrat  himself, 
Your  Majesty." 

"  And  the  charge  ?  " 

"  Conspiracy  against  the  life  of  the  Em- 
peror of  France !  "  answers  the  officer,  pom- 
pously reading  from  his  paper. 

There  is  an  instant  of  terrible  silence. 

The  face  of  Louis  Napoleon  is  at  this  mo- 
ment such  a  chaos  of  conflicting  emotions, 
as  would  have  astounded  those  who  accused 
it  of  immobility. 

His  eyes  glowed  like  coals  of  fire,  as  they 
flashed  under  his  contracting  brows  upon 
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the  young  Russian.  His  lips  quivered  with 
rage,  and  perchance  with  that  species  of  ter- 
ror which  is  the  familiar  of  men  who  pin 
their  faith  upon  the  ignis  fatiius  they  chris- 
ten a  "  destiny."  His  hand  grasped  the 
back  of  a  chair  with  the  tenure  of  a  vise. 

"  And  Monsieur  Ducrat,  where  is  he?  " 
Without,    Your    Majesty,  Monsieur 
Ducrat  waits  in  his  carriage  at  the  en- 
trance." 

Request  him  to  come  in." 

There  is  by  this  time  sufificient  noise. 

Little  nervous  Monsieur  Victoire  alone  is 
quiet,  scribbling  hurriedly  in  his  note-book 
in  a  corner. 

"  Well;  Madame  ?  "  the  Emperor  says,  in 
a  low,  sharp  voice,  as  he  sits  and  turns  his 
face  to  the  woman  who  stands  near  him. 
What !    No  tears  ?    No  prayers  ?  " 

"  Ami  Louis!  "  cries  she,  bending  her  lips 
to  his  ear  and  whispering  a  few  hurried  sen- 
tences, while  the  noise  of  hurried  steps 
echoes  from  the  vestibule  and  across  the 
pavements  of  the  little  flowery  garden. 

The  Emperor  springs  to  his  feet  as  Ducrat 
enters  the  room  attended  by  several  gens- 
288 


and  Other  People 


d'armes  and  two  or  three  men  in  civihan's 
dress. 

Your  Majesty  has  sent  for  me,"  Mon- 
sieur Ducrat  says  respectfully. 
"  Precisely." 

"And  Your  Majesty's  pleasure  is?" 

**  To  hear  the  history  of  this  " — he  extends 
his  hand  for  the  warrant,  which  is  at  once 
presented  to  him — "  this  piece  of  paper." 

To  be  brief,  Your  Majesty,  I  have  dis- 
covered, by  dint  of  the  greatest  pertinac- 
ity  " 

The  Emperor  smiles  cynically,  it  would 
seem. 

"  that  a  plot  against  the  life  of  the 

Emperor  of  France  has  been  for  some  time 
germinating  in  the  very  heart  of  Paris  itself. 
Yes,  this  very  night— nay,  this  very  hour,  as 
Your  Majesty  should  have  been  en  route  to 
the  Tuileries,  the  ruler  of  the  French  people 
was  to  have  been  shot  like  a  dog  in  his  car- 
riage ! " 

A  murmur  of  horror  ran  round  the 
room. 

M.  Ducrat  paused  to  enjoy  the  effect  of 
his  oratory. 

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"  And  Madame  Orloff  ?  "  the  Emperor  in- 
quires, as  he  caresses  his  mustache. 

"  Ah,  Your  Majesty,  the  arrest  of  Mme. 
Orloff  becomes  the  last  painful  duty  I  have 
this  night  to  see  carried  out.  The  others 
are  under  irons  already.  By  means  of 
papers  found  on  the  persons  of  the  chief  con- 
spirators— now — within  the  hour !  "  Mon- 
sieur Ducrat  glances  picturesquely  at  the 
clock  in  the  corner — "  it  is  discovered  that 
Mme.  Orloff  was  in  daily  communication 
with  these  wretches ;  that  it  was  she  who 
furnished  them  with  the  exact  hour  at  which 
Your  Majesty  might  be  expected  to  leave 
her  house  on  your  way  to  the  State  ball  at  the 
palace."  Monsieur  Ducrat  pauses  for  breath 
and  to  indulge  in  the  pardonable  gratifica- 
tion which  the  amazement  of  his  auditors 
affords  him. 

That  it  was  she — even  she ! — Your 
Majesty,  who  suggested  to  her  abominable 
accomplices  the  exact  spot  on  the  corner  of 
the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  at  which  they  should  lie 
in  wait  to  assassinate  the  Emperor  of 
France !  " 

"This  is  all,  Monsieur  Ducrat?"  His 
290 


and  Other  People 

Majesty  inquires,  still  stroking  his  mus- 
tache. 

"  All,  Your  Majesty?  Surely  it  is  suffi- 
cient !  " 

You  are  quite  sure,  M.  Ducrat,  that 
there  is  no  incident  which  you  have  omitted 
in  the  rehearsal  of  this  plot  ?  " 

I  am  positive,  Your  Majesty !  " 
"  Ah,  very  well !  " 

Louis  Napoleon  approaches  the  table,  and 
holding  the  warrant  lightly,  he  sets  it 
on  fire  at  the  flame  of  one  of  the  tall  can- 
dles. 

"  But,  Your  Majesty,  this  woman  ?  " 

"This  woman — well?"  His  Majesty  re- 
peats, coldly,  watching  the  bit  of  paper 
wither  into  a  flimsy  ash. 

This  woman  is  dangerous,  criminal !  " 

Monsieur  Ducrat  is  becoming  very  much 
excited.  Surely  Your  Majesty  will  not 
endanger  a  life  that  is  dear  to  millions  of 
Frenchmen  for  the  sake  of  ?"  Mon- 
sieur Ducrat  pauses. 

In  his  position  and  with  the  present  sur- 
roundings,  Monsieur   Ducrat's  command 
over  language  may  go  no  farther. 
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"  For  the  sake  of  ?  "  repeats  the  Em- 
peror icily,  turning  from  the  table. 

Pardon!  Your  Majesty,  but  I  have 
your  Majesty's  own  recommendation  re- 
garding Madame  Orloff .  It  is  here !  The 
date,  almost  four  years  since."  Monsieur 
Ducrat  hastily  takes  a  note-book  from  his 
inner  pocket  and  reads :  "  Zalka — Russian 
— Quartier  Latin,  a  resemblance — ahem! 
A  journalist;  has  in  her  possession,  etc., 
etc." 

M.  de  Morny  takes  a  step  forward  and 
ventures  to  whisper  a  word  or  two  to  the 
Emperor. 

It  is  as  if  he  had  not  spoken. 

"  Thank  you.  Monsieur  Ducrat,"  the  Em- 
peror says.  "  You  have  nothing  more  to  tell 
me  of  this  affair,  I  presume?  " 

"  No,  Your  Majesty,"  is  the  reply. 

"  There  is  time  if  you  have,  for  I  shall  not 
go  to  the  ball  to-night." 

"  No,  Your  Majesty."  Monsieur  Du- 
crat's  eyes  are  greedily  fixed  upon  Zalka. 

What  a  morsel  to  escape  the  hand  of  jus- 
tice! 

"  Very  well,  Monsieur.  I  then  have  some- 
292 


and  Other  People 

thing  to  say  to  you.  Appreciating  to  the 
full  the  extraordinary  exertions  which  you 
have  made  on  my  behalf,  I  am  disposed 
to  lay  at  the  door  of  fatigue  the  defect  in 
your  memory  which  has  caused  you  to  omit 
any  mention  in  your  recital,  of  a  letter  which 
you  received  only  this  afternoon ! "  His 
Majesty  emphasizes  these  last  three  words 
in  so  singular  a  manner,  that  M.  Ducrat  fair- 
ly starts. 

"  For  the  benefit  of  these,  the  friends  of 
Madame  Orloff,  I  must  be  at  the  trouble  of 
repairing  your  deficiencies.  It  is  this  then. 
At  three  o'clock  this  afternoon,  our  good 
friend  Monsieur  Ducrat,  being  in  his  office 
immersed  in  affairs,  receives  an  anonymous 
note,  signed  *  Ami  Louis.'  It  runs  thus : 
*  To-night  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli 
and  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  four  men; 
one  in  a  blouse,  two  shabby,  one  as  a  cab- 
driver.  They  have  for  their  object  the  as- 
sassination of  the  Emperor  as  he  is  en  route 
to  the  Tuileries,  after  visiting  a  certain  house 
in  the  Avenue  de  Villers.  The  plot  has 
been  months  in  preparation.  The  time  and 
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place  are  decided  upon  only  within  the  last 
twelve  hours  ! '  " 

A  hum  of  intense  excited  interest  quivers 
through  the  apartment. 

Monsieur  Ducrat,  who  wrote  that  let- 
ter? " 

I  do  not  know,  Your  Majesty." 
The  voice  of  Monsieur  Ducrat  is  subdued. 
"  You  have  it?" 
"  Yes,  Your  Majesty." 
"  I  would  thank  you  to  permit  me  to  see 
it." 

It  was  curious  to  note  that  at  this  crisis 
the  Emperor's  face  for  the  first  time  be- 
trayed a  faint  emotion. 

It  was  perhaps  possible  that  he  feared  that 
this  letter  might  not  be  forthcoming. 

Nevertheless,  in  a  second  it  was  in  his  pos- 
session. 

And  turning  with  a  smile  of  rare  courtesy 
to  Zalka  he  said: 

Perhaps  Monsieur  Ducrat  would  care 
to  know  the  name  of  the  person  who  wrote 
this  letter?  " 

"Oh,  Your  Majesty!" 
"  Zalka  Orloflf,"  the  Emperor  ejaculates 
294 


and  Other  People 


sharply.  "  You  see,  Ducrat,  there  is  a  loy- 
alty which  is  not  to  be  counted  by  so  many 
francs  a  year,  and  which  risks  life  itself,  and 
calls  it  by  no  such  title  as  the  '  greatest  perti- 
nacity.'   Good-evening,  Monsieur !  " 

The  Emperor  turns  away,  and  amid  the 
joyful  exclamations  of  the  assembled  group 
Zalka  sinks  into  a  seat. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  one  thing,  and 
that  is  lay  my  commands  upon  you.  Mad- 
emoiselle? I  will  permit  no  more  risks, 
even,"  he  whispers,  "  for  my  sake."  And 
aloud. 

Can  I  create  you  on  the  spot  Comtesse 
de  ?" 

"  St.  Sauveur ! "  murmurs  the  witty 
young  journalist. 

Zalka  shakes  her  head. 

"  No,  ami  Louis.  You  gave  me  the  mau- 
vais  quart  d'heure  in  advance ;  it  is  all  that 
I  ask!" 

"Nothing?  Am  I  so  poor,  then,  that  I 
have  nothing  that  is  worthy  of  your  accept- 
ance ?  " 

"Ah,  it  is  not  that.  Stay!  Yes,  one 
thing.    I  will  ask  for  your  portrait." 
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The  guests  are  now  amusing  themselves 
with  the  fragments  of  their  late  supper,  and 
some  fresh  bottles  of  wine,  which  Monsieur 
Alexandre  has  seen  fit  to  order. 

"  You  refused  it  once."   Napoleon  smiles. 
Ah,  that  was  gold.    I  do  not  like  gold — 
it  is  what  we  pay  our  debts  with.  Monsieur 
Louis  owes  me  nothing." 

But  his  life !  You  shall  have  the  por- 
trait." 

Thank  you."  She  raises  her  lovely  eyes 
to  his  face. 

"  Why  did  you  do  it?" 
"  What?" 

"  Risk  so  much  for  me." 
"  I  have  risked  '  so  much  '  for  you,  for  five 
years  and  more." 
Zalka  looks  down. 

"  But  why?  "  His  Majesty's  clear,  pierc- 
ing eyes  are  intent  upon  her  face. 

"  Because,"  she  murmurs  inarticulately, 
"  because  I — I  am  Your  Majesty's  most 
loyal  subject !  " 

Never  before  had  she  so  addressed 
him. 

With  one  long  pressure  of  her  two  hands 
296 


and  Other  People 

Napoleon,  with  De  Morny,  shortly  after- 
ward quitted  the  house. 

Not  many  weeks  later  Zalka  received  and 
accepted  a  small  and  exquisite  cameo  like- 
ness of  the  Emperor. 

It  was  set  with  diamonds  in  a  frame  of 
chased  gold. 

And  it  now  lies  neglected,  half  hidden  by 
a  little  portrait  of  the  Maintenon,  in  the 
dusty  case  of  one  of  the  most  noted  collec- 
tions of  miniatures  in  Paris. 

One  of  the  diamonds  is  missing,  and  it  is 
likewise  true  that  the  golden  frame  is  slight- 
ly battered. 

VIII 

It  is  toward  three  o'clock  of  a  beautiful 
day  in  the  early  summer. 

Paris  wears  her  holiday  aspect,  and  it  is 
evident  that  something  unusual  is  transpir- 
ing. 

Quite  true. 

The  Court  is  about  to  set  out  for  St.  Cloud, 
and  all  about  the  Tuileries  there  is  the  har- 
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monious  confusion  of  soldiers,  equerries 
dashing  to  and  fro,  officers  reining  in  their 
restive  horses,  sabres  flashing  in  the  sun- 
shine, low  murmurs  of  curiosity  and  impa- 
tience, strains  of  music,  the  crush  of  an  ex- 
pectant and  eager  crowd,  and  the  bewilder- 
ing, surging  sway  and  play  of  Paris  bent  on 
witnessing  one  of  the  sights  dear  to  her 
heart. 

The  open  carriage  awaits  their  Majesties 
at  the  entrance. 

Within  the  palace,  grooms  and  gentlemen 
are  rushing  about  hither  and  thither. 

But  in  the  private  apartments  of  the  Em- 
press everything  is  quiet  almost  to  a  sense 
of  oppression. 

Eugenie  is  alone. 

She  sits,  true  daughter  of  the  universal 
mother,  before  the  long  mirror,  which  re- 
flects her  graceful  figure  and  its  graceful 
pose. 

She  listens,  for  her  head  is  bent  and  her 
hand  is  pressed  against  her  heart,  while  the 
lovely,  languid  eyes  are  fixed  upon  one  of 
the  portieres  that  lead  into  the  adjoining 
room  of  the  suite. 

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and  Other  People 


Presently  the  curtains  part,  and  in  an  in- 
stant fold  together  again  behind  the  favorite 
actress  of  Paris. 

Zalka  stands  in  the  presence  of  the  Em- 
press, in  the  presence  of  the  woman  to  whom 
she  bears  so  strange  and  subtle  a  resem- 
blance. 

Contrary  to  etiquette — but,  perchance,  eti- 
quette had  after  all  but  small  affair  in  this 
meeting — the  subject  spoke  first. 

"  Your  Majesty,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone, 
"  has  done  me  the  honor  to  send  for 
me.  Can  I  serve  Your  Majesty  in  any 
way?" 

Eugenie  rises  involuntarily;  there  was  a 
sweet  imperiousness  in  Zalka's  voice  that 
compelled  a  deference  from  anyone.  But 
also  at  once  Her  Majesty  reseated  herself, 
with  half  a  smile  and  half  a  frown. 

"  Yes,  Madame,  I  have  sent  for  you  to  see 
you — alas !  not  that  I  have  not  seen  you 
many  times,  studied  your  every  motion  and 
expression." 

Zalka  bows. 

"  But,"  Her  Majesty  with  an  impetuous 
sigh,  rises  and  crosses  the  room. 

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"  But,  jnoji  Dicu!  Madame,  I  wished  to 
see  you  face  to  face !  " 

Zalka  again  inchnes  her  head. 
Not  there,"  continues  Eugenie,  passion- 
ately, "  with  the  flare  of  the  footlights  light- 
ing up  the  beauty  they  say  is  so  like  my  own, 
but  to  see  you  as  he  sees  you,  in  the  sun- 
shine, in  the  daylight,  as  he  sees  you,  do  you 
hear?" 

"  Yes,  Your  Majesty.  But  of  whom  does 
Your  Majesty  speak?  " 

The  Empress  turned  toward  the  window 
and  as  hastily  withdrew  her  gaze. 

Can  it  be  that  the  blaze  of  light  and  glitter 
on  the  casement  is  offensive  to  her  beautiful 
eyes? 

She  takes  a  few  steps  nearer  to  the  actress, 
and  then,  sinking  upon  a  chair,  she  exclaims, 
in  a  broken  voice  : 

"  Of  my  husband,  Madame." 

Zalka  starts. 

"  Of  my  husband,"  cries  the  woman  mad- 
ly. "  I  wanted  to  see  the  face  that  has 
robbed  me  of  his  smiles,  his  lips,  his  looks. 
Oh,  Madame,  you  have  Paris  at  your  feet ; 
the  world  is  ready  to  do  you  homage,  go 
where  you  will.  Can  you  not  leave  to 
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and  Other  People 

Eugenie  the  heart  of  Louis  Napoleon?  I 
plead  with  you  !    I  beg  of  you  !  " 

Her  Majesty's  sHght,  long  hands  are 
locked  tightly  together,  and  the  tears  are 
dimming  the  soft  lustre  of  the  wonderful 
eyes. 

"  Your  Majesty !  "  cries  the  actress  pas- 
sionately ;  Your  Majesty  labors  under  a 
mistake.  I  have  robbed  Your  Majesty  of 
nothing — nothing!  What  do  you  think 
that  Zalka  could  do  with  the  heart  of  an- 
other woman's  husband?  Your  Majesty, 
we  have  a  little  proverb  in  my  country ;  it  is 
this :  *  She  vv'ho  meddles  with  fire  burns 
her  body— she  who  meddles  with  the  hus- 
band of  a  loyal  wife  burns  her  soul'  Will 
Your  Majesty  graciously  permit  me  to  re- 
tire?" 

The  young  Russian  is  drawn  up  in  an  atti- 
tude of  strange  hauteur.  One  looking  might 
say  that  she  was  the  Empress,  and  that  the 
woman  who  gazed  upon  her  with  an  expres- 
sion of  mingled  admiration  and  amazement, 
was  the  inferior  in  rank. 

For  an  instant  Eugenie  made  no  move- 
ment nor  any  response. 

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Then  she  spoke  slowly: 

"  You  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  do  not  love 
the  Emperor?  " 

Your  Majesty,  I  mean  to  tell  you  noth- 
ing whatever  about  my  love.  I  am  the 
keeper  of  my  own  heart/'  Zalka  says,  with  a 
sad  and  bitter  emphasis.  "  I  believe  the 
Emperor  will  tell  you  as  much." 

"And  what  of  him?"  cries  the  reckless 
and  unhappy  wife  of  Napoleon  III.  "  What 
of  his  love^  his  heart?  What  can  you  say 
to  me  of  that?  I  implore  you,  I  implore 
you !  "  she  cries,  sinking  among  the  cushions 
of  the  lounge,  while  sobs  shake  the  slender 
frame. 

Ah !  Your  Majesty  must  surely  be  the 
keeper  of  the  Emperor's  heart.  Why  do 
you  come  to  me  for  information  of  such  a 
nature?  Your  Majesty  will  pardon  me  if 
I  remind  you  that  actresses  are  the  toys  " — 
the  splendid  Northern  eyes  dilate  with  pride 
and  passion  as  she  speaks — "  the  toys  of 
monarchs,  the  playthings  of  a  public  that, 
through  us,  can  take  pleasure  in  sitting  by 
and  watching  the  dissection  of  their  own 
choicest  emotions.  Your  Majesty  should 
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and  Other  People 

know  that  with  hearts  and  love,  and  homes 
and  firesides,  people  of  my  trade  have  little 
to  do.  We  toil,  Madame,  and  sweat  that 
you  may  be  amused,  and  that  we  may  be  fed. 
The  Emperor's  flowers  are  no  sweeter,  to 
my  thinking.  Your  Majesty, than  any  others, 
and  as  to  his  admiration,  surely  the  ruler 
of  France  could  not  quarrel  with  the  ver- 
dict of  his  own  Paris."  Zalka  laughs 
lightly,  showing  her  white  teeth  very  pretti- 
ly, courtesies,  and  takes  a  step  toward  the 
portiere,  but  a  motion  of  the  Empress's 
hand  arrests  her. 

IX 

"  You  are  very  clever,  Mademoiselle  Zal- 
ka,'* Eugenie  says,  but  the  Empress  is  as 
clever  as  you  are.  Metternich  and  Bismarck 
are  clever  too,  but  they  have  not  been,  so  far, 
able  to  deceive  me." 

The  tone  is  brave,  haughty,  even  defiant, 
and  the  Empress  raises  her  lovely  golden 
head  proudly. 

But  then  in  an  instant  all  is  changed. 
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With  a  sob  of  agony  she  staggers  across  the 
room  and  falls  almost  fainting  at  the  ac- 
tress's feet. 

"  Oh !  "  cries  she,  through  fastly  falling 
tears,  why  then,  since  you  say  he  does  not 
love  you,  do  you  wear  upon  your  bosom  his 
portrait  ?  " 

The  cameo  has  fallen  from  between  the 
sheltering  folds  of  Zalka's  robe. 

Your  Majesty,"  returns  the  Russian, 
with  inimitable  sangfroid,  that  was  the 
Emperor's  gift  to  me^  who  saved  his 
life." 

"  And  if  you  care  nothing  for  him  why 
does  his  image  hang  about  your  heart  ?  " 

"  Your  Majesty,  listen.  I  am  a  loyal  sub- 
ject. France  has  none  too  many  such  in 
these  days."  The  Russian  speaks  hurried- 
ly and  low,  perchance  she  suffers,  for  she 
presses  her  hand  to  her  heart,  and  the  cough 
that  is  such  a  natural  feature  with  her  Mar- 
guerite Gautier,  for  a  moment  convulses 
her. 

"  Your  Majesty,  the  Rhine  is  rising ;  it 
will   overflow   its  banks   and   rush  into 
France.    Mark  my  words,  there  is  disaster 
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and  Other  People 


in  the  air.  I  feel  it !  In  Berlin  they  are 
already  prating  of  a  new  empire,  and  in 
Alsace-Lorraine,  children  tremble  as  they 
hear  the  distant  hum  and  roar  of  an  army. 
I  am  a  loyal  servant  and  subject  of  the 
Buonaparte  dynasty — surely  Your  Majesty 
cannot  find  fault  if  I  wear  the  Emperor's 
image  as  my  badge  of  fidelity." 

The  Empress  regards  the  woman  before 
her  with  incredulous  eyes. 

Is  she,  then,  some  splendid  prophetess, 
this  golden-haired  girl,  with  her  clear  eyes 
and  quivering  Hps?  Can  it  be  that  these 
rumors  she  has  heard  are  only  rumors? 

No ;  Eugenie  is  a  woman  and  reasons 
from  the  feelings. 

No;  Zalka  is  a  woman,  therefore  her 
fidelity  is  to  her  heart  and  not  to  her 
head. 

She  turns  like  one  demented,  wringing 
her  hands,  sobbing,  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room. 

"  You  are  a  sorceress  !  "  cries  the  Empress 
madly. 

"  Bien,  Madame.    You  are  an  Empress ; 
command  me  to  be  burned  at  the  stake.  I 
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do  not  know,"  she  adds  gloomily,  "  that  I 
should  not  thank  you  for  it." 

"  You  love  him?  "  whispers  Eugenie  with 
concentrated  anguish. 

"  And  what  then  ?  "  cries  the  other,  goad- 
ed to  desperation. 

"  He  must  then  have  first  loved  you,  for 
you  are  not  the  woman  to  have  given  un- 
sought." 

"  What  then  ?  "  murmurs  the  Russian,  in 
a  voice  of  imperious  impatience. 

Suddenly  without  is  heard  the  sound  of 
approaching  footsteps. 

Zalka  shrinks  within  the  shadow  of  the 
curtains. 

It  is  impossible  to  intrude  upon  the  pri- 
vacy of  the  Empress  whose  commands  have 
been  strict,  but  it  is  quite  possible  for  an 
equerry  to  boldly  impart  the  information  to 
the  ladies  in  waiting,  and  for  them  to  as 
loudly  echo  it,  that  the  Emperor  impatiently 
awaits  the  appearance  of  the  Empress. 

"What  shall  I  do?  What  can  I  do? 
What  is  to  become  of  me?"  exclaims  the 
Empress,  frantically,  as  with  a  gesture  of 
despair,  she  catches  sight  in  one  of  the  great 
306 


and  Other  People 

mirrors,  of  her  tear-stained  face,  her  dishev- 
elled hair,  her  disordered  mien. 

It  would  take  at  least  an  hour  to  restore 
her  appearance  to  its  usual  calm. 

And  to  appear  before  Paris  in  this  guise  is 
among  the  positive  impossibilities. 

"  A  sudden  illness,"  cries  she,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  falling  back  amid  the  cushions 
of  a  luxurious  couch,  and  catching  up  a 
silver  smelling-bottle. 

"  The  Parisians  are  in  no  mood,  permit  me 
to  remind  Your  Majesty,"  Zalka  says  timid- 
ly, emerging  from  her  retirement,  "  for  a 
sudden  illness.  They  will  not  fall  in  love 
with  a  disappointment  to  their  fete-loving 
senses.  It  were  more  wise  for  Your  Maj- 
esty to  devise  some  plan  for  their  better 
amusement,  than  to  cheat  them  of  their  ex- 
pected pageant.  The  Empire  wins  a  victory 
by  every  royal  progress  that  it  makes." 

The  girl's  voice  fairly  trembles  as  she 
speaks,  and  in  her  eagerness  she  has  ap- 
proached Eugenie  very  closely. 

The  latter  glances  up,  and  as  she  does  so 
her  eyes  fall  upon  the  reflections  in  the  look- 
ing glass,  of  her  own  and  the  actress's  face. 
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"  It  is  impossible  for  me,  Alademoiselle," 
cries  she,  rising,  "  but  you  are  used  to 
playing  parts.  We  are  alike,  do  you  not 
see  ?  You  can,  if  you  will,  save  me  from  the 
Emperor's  displeasure  and  the  odium  of  the 
people — do  you  not  see  and  understand, 
Madame  ?  I  will  make  it  worth  your  while. 
See!  We  are  of  the  same  height!  This 
robe !  "  The  Empress  picks  up  a  dress  of 
pale  mauve  satin  which  lies  ready  for  her  use 
in  the  adjoining  dressing-room. 

"  Your  Majesty  is  very  good,  but  I  re- 
quire no  reward.  As  Your  Majesty  is 
pleased  to  say,  I  am  '  used  to  playing  parts  ' ; 
and  to  serve  the  Empire."  (Zalka  speaks 
with  a  grand  enthusiasm.)  "  I  am  willing 
to  appear  in  a  new  role  at  even  so  short  a  no- 
tice.   Your  Majesty  will  direct  me?" 


X 

In  a  few  moments,  and  with  fewer  words 
the  Russian  is  invested  with  the  splen- 
did costume  that  had  been  designed  for  the 
Empress's  v/ear  on  the  drive  to  St.  Cloud. 
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and  Other  People 

The  faultless  robe,  the  lace  mantle,  the 
bonnet  with  its  delicate  plumes,  the  amethyst 
jewels,  the  fan  of  long  violet  feathers,  the 
boots. 

With  a  dexterous  hand  she  arranges  her 
golden  hair  in  the  mode  affected  by  Eugenie. 
She  pencils  her  brows  and  dashes  her  lips 
and  cheeks  with  the  rouge  that  Her  Majesty 
was  of  late  seldom  seen  without. 

She  pins  the  thin,  small  masque  veil  across 
her  face  and  then  turns  toward  her  counter- 
part. 

"  Is  Your  Majesty  pleased — suited  ?  " 

"  Ah !  "  cries  the  impetuous  woman,  it 
is  perfect !  " 

"  Now,  Your  Majesty,  what  is  my  cue  ?  " 

By  this  the  noise  and  confusion  without 
has  grown  greater. 

The  stir  and  hum  of  impatience  were  in 
the  air. 

"  I  rely  upon  you,"  whispers  the  Empress, 
"  although  Heaven  knows  why !  and  you  are 
to  be  with  him — ah,  what  have  I  done !  I  am 
crazed !  You  must  not  go." 

Your  Majesty  may  rely  upon  me.  Be 
at  the  theatre  at  eight  o'clock.    You  will 
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find  Zalka  there.  I  save  you  mortification, 
disgrace,  perhaps  something  even  more  se- 
rious. Your  Majesty  has  more  to  hope  from 
me  than  to  fear." 

There  is  a  splendid  light  in  the  Northern 
eyes,  a  light  of  enthusiasm  and  purity,  of 
devotion  and  loyalty  that  the  Southern  born 
woman  who  listens,  cannot  understand,  but 
still  instinctively  relies  upon. 

Between  mingled  prayers,  entreaties,  and 
sobs,  the  Empress  shrinks  back  into  the  in- 
ner boudoir ;  and  the  actress,  with  her  beau- 
tiful head  erect,  steps  out  into  the  auditor- 
ium, amid  the  ladies  and  people  in  waiting. 

Once  visible  the  great  throat  of  Paris 
cheers  itself  hoarse  over  her. 

Never,"  they  say,  "  has  the  Empress 
been  so  exquisite,  so  animated,  so  conde- 
scending." 

It  is  remarked  that  even  the  Emperor  half 
turns  his  haughty  head  to  look  at  her,  as  they 
pass  up  the  Champs  Elysees. 

It  is  even  remarked  by  a  casual  onlooker 
that  as  he  speaks  to  her  he  seems  almost 
moved,  and  that  a  deep  flush  overspreads  his 
face. 

310 


and  Other  People 

But  this  may  be  but  the  outcome  of  a  vivid 
imagination  on  the  part  of  the  casual  on- 
looker. 

However,  once  well  past  Boulogne,  it  is 
quite  true  that  His  Majesty  spoke  with  some 
animation  to  the  lady  at  his  side. 

"  Zalka,"  whispers  Louis  Napoleon,  "  I 
have  dreamed  of  this  hour,  and  it  has  come. 
Tell  me  that  my  star  is  not  a  faithful  one !  I 
have  desired  nothing  that  has  not  been  mine, 
sooner  or  later." 

"  Your  Majesty  is  fortunate,"  murmurs 
she. 

Already  he  has  listened  to  the  story  of  the 
hour  just  passed, and  thus,  side  by  side,  these 
two  make  their  progress  to  the  palace  of  St. 
Cloud. 

"  Zalka,  why  did  you  consent  to  this  ?  " 
he  asks,  regarding  her  attentively. 

For  the  good  of  your  Empire,  ami 
Louis." 

"  You  love  my  Empire,  then  ?  " 
"  As  my  life,"  she  answers  in  a  low  tone. 
And — Vempire  c'est  moi — eh,  Zalka, 
Zalka?" 

His  hand,  for  a  wayward  instant,  closes 
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over  that  one  of  hers  which  lies  almost  hid- 
den in  the  folds  of  her  mantle. 

For  an  instant,  while  sweet  music  plays, 
while  men  and  women  and  little  children 
shout  them  a  welcome — while  flowers  arch 
above  their  heads,  and  while  the  twilight 
breeze,  fresh  off  the  perfuming  fields,  blows 
upon  them,  Louis  Napoleon  is  a  weak  and 
loving  man,  as  other  men.  Zalka,  a  woman, 
moved  to  a  sad  uplifting  of  her  blue  eyes,  as 
other  women. 

The  cortege  has  reached  the  palace. 

Lights  flit  hither  and  thither  about  the 
gardens.  The  fountains  are  playing  and  so 
is  the  band. 

All  is  bustle  and  confusion  as  the  Emperor 
and  Empress  alight,  and  are  presently  con- 
ducted to  their  apartments. 

Ere  long  they  are  alone,  and  with  a 
subtle  spring  Louis  Napoleon  is  at  her 
side. 

"  Zalka,  you  love  me  as  I  love  you  ?  " 

She  gazes  out  of  the  window  by  which  she 
stands,  upon  the  darkening  woods  of  Ville 
d'Avray,  she  sees  the  thin  curl  of  smoke  as- 
cending from  some  cottage  far  away.  She 
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and  Other  People 


hears  the  twitter  of  some  sleepy  Httle  birds, 
and  feels  the  dewy  air  upon  her  face. 

There  is  a  curious  innate  power  in  the 
woman  that  makes  the  man  silent,  breath- 
less, motionless,  enthralled,  with  idle  hands 
and  quivering  lips. 

What  passes  through  her  mind  ? 

A  morning  long  ago  in  June.  A  soldier 
turning  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Bayard — a 
girl  bareheaded  and  with  no  stockings  on 
her  feet. 

Well,  well,  for  one  hour  she  had  been  the 
Empress  of  France. 

For  one  hour  she  had  sat  at  the  side  of  the 
man  who  had  been  the  hero  of  her  life. 

With  a  sharp,  fleet  sigh,  an  upward  glance 
that  took  in  all  the  sweet,  soft  beauty  of  the 
time  and  place,  Zalka  bent  her  head  above 
the  man  who  now  knelt  by  her. 

She  bent  her  head  and  touched  his  brow 
with  her  lips,  and  then  she  was  gone. 

Gone — with  but  that  icy  touch  for  him  to 
remember  all  the  years  through  to  the  end. 


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XI 

A  cab  hurried  toward  Paris. 

The  curtains  were  pulled  down  and  the 
man  drove  like  one  possessed;  a  large  pour- 
hoire  must  have  awaited  him  at  his  destina- 
tion. 

A  coupe  followed  in  hot  pursuit. 

The  silken  curtains  of  this  were  also 
drawn  down,  and  the  coachman  did  not  once 
lose  sight  of  the  carriage  that  he  followed. 

Down  through  the  Elysees,  across  the 
Place,  through  the  Rivoli,  these  two  dashed, 
and  finally  they  attained  their  goal  almost 
simultaneously,  the  stage  door  of  the  the- 
atre where,  as  chance  would  have  it,  a  third 
carriage,  with  blinds  as  closely  drawn,  ap- 
peared to  await  their  arrival. 

Zalka  alighted  from  the  cab,  her  mauve 
garments  hastily  concealed  by  a  great  cloak, 
and  with  a  simple  kerchief  tied  over  her 
head. 

Two  gentlemen  alighted  from  the  coupe. 
Two  gentlemen  in  surtouts,  and  with 
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and  Other  People 


opera  hats  discreetly  held  close  by  their 
faces. 

From  the  third  a  lady  emerged  clad  heav- 
ily in  black  lace ;  there  were  roses  at  her 
breast,  while  roses  and  a  Spanish  mantilla 
wound  about  her  head  almost  entirely  con- 
cealed her  countenance. 

On  beholding  Zalka  she  gave  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

She  had  no  eyes  for  the  two  gentlemen 
who  stood  aside,  to  permit  her  and  her 
attendant  to  enter  the  theatre  from  the 
front. 

But  shortly,  they  also  followed  her  exam- 
ple. 

And  what  would  Paris  have  said  had  it 
known  that  both  the  Emperor  and  Empress 
that  night,  were  present  at  the  performance 
of    La  Dame  aux  Camelias    at  the  theatre  ? 

Never,  they  say,  had  the  Russian  played 
her  favorite  role  as  well. 

Certainly  never  had  the  applause  been  so 
emphatic,  or  an  audience  so  madly  enthusi- 
astic. 

Again  and  again,  after  each  act  was  Zalka 
recalled  to  receive  the  homage  of  her  public. 
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And  this  display  of  adoration  reached  its 
dimax  at  the  close  of  the  last  act. 

Twice  was  she  recalled,  and  a  third  time 
— amid  the  tumultuous  bravos  of  a  house 
that  greeted  her  on  its  feet,  with  waving  of 
•  hats  and  handkerchiefs,  with  flowers  and 
gems  thrown  recklessly  at  her  feet — was  the 
curtain  raised. 

Was  Zalka  weary  ? 

Or  had  she  overtaxed  her  strength? 

On  the  small  garret  bed  of  Marguerite 
Gautier,  the  actress  lay  as  if  asleep. 

Nor  did  she  stir  to  their  plaudits  or  lift 
her  lids  to  meet  their  gaze.  Nor  give  any 
sign  that  she  knew  that  the  eyes  of  the  man 
she  had  loved  were  upon  her.  Nor  did  the 
light  lace  upon  her  bosom  quiver  with  ex- 
altation and  pride  in  her  triumph. 

It  was  like  the  curious  phase  of  some  ver- 
itable melodrama,  or  perchance  tragedy? 

The  curtain  fell  suddenly.  Its  dull  thud, 
as  the  weights  struck  the  floor  sounding  om- 
inously through  the  remarkable  hush  of  the 
house. 

In  a  moment  more  the  manager-in-chief 
316 


and  Other  People 


— a  courteous,  phlegmatic  person — stepped 
out  before  the  footlights.    He  said : 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  regret  to  be 
compelled  to  inform  you  that  Mademoiselle 
Zalka  is  dead." 

When  they  raised  her  from  the  spot 
where  she  had  fallen,  something  sparkled 
upon  the  stage  at  their  feet,  a  cameo  minia- 
ture of  the  Emperor,  its  golden  frame  bat- 
tered and  one  of  the  brilliants  lost  from  the 
circle,  while  upon  her  white  neck  there  red- 
dened a  scar,  and  the  missing  diamond  was 
pressed  into  the  flesh. 


317 


WHEN  THE  TZAR 
CROWNED 


WHEN  THE  TZAR  IS 
CROWNED 


The  room  was  a  large  and  magnificently 
appointed  one  in  the  palace  of  Gatschina, 
an  immense  fire  burned  in  the  elegant  porce- 
lain stove :  it  was  almost  red  hot ;  a  table  lit- 
tered with  pamphlets  and  papers,  also  a 
couple  of  arm-chairs  were  drawn  up  before 
it ;  two  men  stood  there ;  one  old,  but  alert, 
stern,  uncompromising.  General  Sergius 
Kalitzin,  chief  of  the  Imperial  Military  Po- 
lice of  Russia.  The  other,  young,  handsome, 
bearded,  resolute,  gallant,  Alexander  the 
Tzar. 

The  Ruler  held  in  his  hand  a  pen,  and 
presently  he  sat  down  and  dipped  it  in  the 
ink :  he  wrote  rapidly  some  twenty  lines  and 
handed  them  to  the  General ;  this  is  an  Im- 
perial method  not  uncommon  of  replying  to 
communications  of  a  certain  nature. 

Kalitzin  took  it  and  read,  his  face  dark- 
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ening  with  excited  blood  as  he  did  so,  his 
brows  contracting,  his  Hps  quivering,  his 
powerful  hand  shaking. 

"  Your  Majesty !  "  cried  he  under  his 
breath,  "  I  implore  of  you,  for  the  sake  of 
the  Empire,  your  father's  sacred  memory, 
your  oath,  your  religion,  do  not  venture  on 
such  enterprises ! 

Alexander  remained  silent,  merely  shak- 
ing his  head  with  a  smile,  and  pointing  to  the 
slip  of  paper  containing  his  autocratic  in- 
structions. 

But,  Sire,  I  implore  pardon !  "  The  old 
man  bent  his  knee  to  the  young  one.  "  If 
you  persist  in  these  investigations  your- 
self, death  is  positive.  I  tell  you,  as  I 
have  just  rehearsed  to  you,  the  Nihilists  are 
a  power  we  must  dread,  we  must  crush, 
stamp  out,  burn,  torture,  strangle,  for  it  is 
strong,  and  these  of  whom  I  have  told  you, 
are  keen  as  daggers.  They  have  sworn ;  they 
are  sharp ;  they  have  taken  the  oath,  and  if 
Your  Majesty  persists  in  the  course  here 
outlined.  I,  the  chief  of  the  Military  Po- 
lice of  the  Empire,  confess  to  you  that  I  may 
prove  of  no  avail." 

322 


and  Other  People 

The  Tzar  again  smiled  as  he  extended  his 
hand  to  raise  the  General,  at  the  same  mo- 
ment taking  from  him  the  slip  of  paper, 
lighting  it  at  the  fire,  and  holding  it  until  it 
crumbled  into  a  feathery  nothing. 

Kalitzin  rose  and  bowed;  he  knew  that 
the  secret  orders — so  secret  as  not  even  to  be 
spoken  lest  the  very  walls  should  possess 
ears,  and  always  burned  lest  trace  of  them 
might  fall  into  treacherous  fingers — must 
be  obeyed,  yet  there  was  trouble,  and  even 
sorrow  on  his  countenance  as  he  quitted  the 
presence  of  his  Imperial  Master,  and  has- 
tened to  give  directions  in  connection  with 
the  Sovereign's  proposed  visit  to  Paris,  for 
which  place  he  set  out  on  the  following 
morning ;  Kalitzin  went  also ;  in  these  days 
he  was  never  more  than  three  feet  distant 
from  the  Tzar,  with  eyes  watchful  as  the 
hungry  tiger's,  and  a  scent  for  danger  as 
acute. 

Once  arrived  in  the  French  capital,  it 
would  seem  that  the  precautions  for  the  Rus- 
sian Ruler's  safety  were  redoubled,  and  amid 
all  that  hubbub  of  fetes,  shows,  pageants, 
balls,  exhibitions  and  reviews,  there  stalked 
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grimly  the  hving,  breathing,  palpitating 
purpose  of  the  followers  of  Prince  Kra- 
potkin,  the  determination  to  kill  the  Tzar. 
Who  was  to  do  it? 

General  Kalitzin  knew,  he  and  three 
others ;  one,  the  person  who  was  to  do  it ; 
another,  the  accomplice;  the  third,  the  vic- 
tim himself ;  these  were  all,  and  yet  Alexan- 
der smiled  on  and  went  about  apparently  in 
unconcern. 

When  a  man  is  guarded  as  he  was,  it  is  not 
hard  to  smile  with  unconcern. 

To-night  he  sat  in  the  superbly  decorated 
loge,  prepared  for  him  at  the  opera.  Calve 
was  singing  Carmen,  but  with  a  motion  of 
weariness  he  leaned  back,  and  concealing  a 
yawn  withdrew  behind  the  shadow  of  the 
silken  curtains. 

With  a  languid  hand  he  picked  up  his 
lorgnette  and  surveyed  the  house ;  glancing 
to  the  right,  around  the  circle  of  boxes,  his 
gaze  was  suddenly  arrested  as  the  gaze  of  a 
man  is  arrested  but  once  in  the  course  of  his 
life. 

By  the  sight  of  a  woman's  face. 
This  woman  was  dressed  like  a  Spanish 
324 


and  Other  People 


woman  in  a  Velasquez  portrait,  in  clinging 
robes  of  dull  browns  and  fawns,  a  little  cap 
of  the  same  hues  sat  on  top  of  her  head ;  her 
hair  was  dull  yellow,  and  it  was  worn  in  a 
curious  tangled  mass  with  wing-like  loops 
over  her  ears ;  her  arms,  in  their  tightly 
puffed  sleeves,  were  very  long  and  slender, 
and  she  held  them  crossed  innocence-fashion 
on  her  breast :  between  them,  on  the  glint  of 
bare  ivory-flesh,  shining  pallid  next  the  vel- 
vet of  her  bodice,  hung,  on  a  magnificent 
golden  chain  bestudded  with  topazes,  an  ag- 
gressively large  and  exquisitely  painted  min- 
iature of  the  Tzar  of  Russia.  The  woman's 
face  was  far  from  beautiful ;  far  more  than 
beautiful ;  it  possessed  that  divinity  of  differ- 
ence from  all  the  other  women's  faces  Alex- 
ander had  ever  seen,  which  made  it  for  him 
the  most  extraordinarily  bewitching  and  al- 
luring face  in  the  world.  She  was  pale  with 
a  radiant  pallor,  features  a  bit  Tartaric, 
straight  yet  flat,  full  lips,  pink  as  coral,  eyes 
under  thick  light  eyebrows,  shining  like  the 
topazes  that  blinked  on  her  bosom. 

She  looked  like  a  moth,  a  strange  note  of 
wildness  subdued  her  and  held  her  prisoner, 
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fluttering  may  be  in  irked  enforcement  amid 
this  sea  of  other  tame  women  in  their  blue 
and  green,  and  red  and  yellow  and  white, 
and  multitudinous  rainbow  fallals. 

Her  companion,  she  had  but  one,  was  a 
man,  or  a  boy?  it  was  difficult  to  determine 
which,  a  being  at  any  rate  of  the  liveliest 
temperament  with  jet  black  curls  worn  clus- 
tering around  his  bright  vermilion-painted 
cheeks,  on  top  of  the  curls  a  yellow  velvet 
beret;  evening  clothes  it  is  true,  but  with 
much  savagery  in  the  way  of  a  scarlet  satin 
cravat,  jeweled  pins,  chains,  rings,  while  a 
bracelet  of  wrought  iron,  delicate  as  a  girl's 
bauble,  with  a  pigmy  watch,  set  in  diamonds 
between  its  links,  encircled  his  wrist. 

This  fat,  white  braceletted  hand  was 
raised  most  of  the  time  holding  an  opera- 
glass,  which,  at  the  moment  that  the  Tzar 
had  levelled  his,  and  caught  glimpse  of  the 
moth-like  girl,  the  painted  boy  handed  to 
her,  whispering : 

"  Take  the  glass  and  look  at  him  well." 

She  took  it,  and  the  rays  of  light  from  the 
electric  globes  above  them  in  the  centre  of 
the  ceiling,  became  entangled  in  these  two 
326 


and  Other  People 

glasses,  held  by  the  Tzar  of  Russia,  and  the 
moth-like  girl ;  a  spark  as  of  lightning's  fire 
was  emitted  by  the  contact,  and  both,  the 
man  and  the  woman,  dropped  their  arms  as 
if  struck  by  some  power  stronger  than  either 
of  them. 

Alexander  of  Russia  sat  bolt  upright  now 
with  no  more  languidness  in  look  or  mien ; 
without  removing  his  eyes  from  the  woman's 
face  he  motioned  with  his  hand  that  Kalitzin 
should  approach  him. 

"  Who  is  that, Kalitzin?  "  asked  the  young 
man  in  a  bewildered  voice — "  that  girl  yon- 
der in  the  third  box  to  the  right,  all  ivory 
and  yellow  and  brown,  with  something  like 
tiger's  eyes  shining  around  a  picture  on  her 
breast.    Find  out  for  me,  if  you  please." 

General  Kalitzin  paused  a  second  before 
he  either  bowed  or  replied  to  his  Sovereign ; 
a  strange  hesitancy  was  in  his  manner,  some- 
thing between  fear  and  irresolution. 

But  an  instant,  however,  and  then  he  in- 
clined profoundly,  and  ventured  to  glance 
at  the  Tzar  with  an  expression  of  interroga- 
tive curiosity  on  his  wrinkled  face. 

Alexander  felt  it,  and  without  turning  his 
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head  he  deigned  to  answer  the  unasked  ques- 
tion with  a  sigh  and  an  imperious  inflection, 
briefly  thus : 

"  She  attracts  me." 

"  God  forbid !  "  exclaimed  the  old  soldier 
under  his  breath,  and  with  such  terrible  fer- 
vor, that  the  Ruler  half  turned  in  his  seat 
with  something  like  a  frown. 

"  Your  Majesty,"  whispers  Kalitzin  with 
a  shudder.    "  That  is  she" 

Yes ;  that  is  she/'  murmurs  Alexander 
half  to  himself,  as  once  again  his  gaze  is  riv- 
eted on  the  face  of  the  moth-like  girl. 

"  That  is  she." 

It  is  what  every  man,  however  humble  or 
mighty,  says  to  himself  one  time  in  his  ca- 
reer. 

Kalitzin  looked  at  his  master,  his  face  be- 
traying, as  he  looked,  a  sense  of  horror,  anx- 
iety, and  consternation. 

"  Your  Majesty,"  he  continues,  that 
woman  is  the  woman  I  told  you  of  before  we 
quitted  Russia,  to  whose  lot  it  fell,  when  lots 
were  drawn,  to  be  the  assassin  of  Your  Ma- 
jesty ;  she  glories  in  the  fate ;  she  is  here  in 
Paris  masquerading  as  a  Russian  patriotic 
328 


and  Other  People 


aristocrat,  so  as  to  watch  you  and  strike  her 
blow  at  the  most  convenient  moment;  she 
wears  ostentatiously  on  her  bosom  a  minia- 
ture of  Your  Majesty;  the  watchword  be- 
tween her  and  her  accomplice,  that  red- 
cheeked  boy  who  poses  as  her  brother,  is, 
'  When  the  Tzar  is  Crowned/  Your  Ma- 
jesty, now,  now,  that  I  am  able  this  night  to 
reveal  to  you  the  details  of  the  dangers 
which  encompass  your  sacred  person,  I  im- 
plore of  you,  cut  short  your  stay  in  this  ac- 
cursed Paris.  Let  us  begone  to-morrow, 
nay,  this  very  night !  for  nowhere  and  it  is 
I  who  say  it,  is  Your  Majesty  safe  except  in 
St.  Petersburg."  Kalitzin's  voice  trembles 
with  suppressed  emotion  as  he  speaks. 

The  Tzar  turned  again  half-way  toward 
him,  his  countenance,  notwithstanding  the 
thick  beard  and  mustache,  was  ashy  pale, 
his  eyes  widened  and  stared. 

"  Her  brother?  "  was  what  he  said. 

"  God  knows !  most  likely  her  lover,  if 
such  women  have  hearts,"  returns  the 
amazed  soldier  impatiently.  "  Petro  Petro- 
vitch,  one  of  my  most  trusted  men,  came  to 
me  this  morning  with  the  information  I  have 
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The  New  Yorkers 


just  imparted  to  Your  Majesty  ;  at  three  this 
afternoon  his  dead  body  was  found  in  the 
Seine,  at  St.  Cloud !  "  KaHtzin  stares  at  his 
Royal  Master  in  blank  astonishment,  for,  on 
the  Tzar's  face  there  is  not  a  trace  of  even 
interest  as  to  the  fate  of  Petro  Petrovitch, 
and  his  eyes  are  again  fastened  on  the  moth- 
like girl. 

"  They  are  like  snakes,  these  Nihilists ; 
their  holes  are  invisible  to  mortal  vision, 
their  fangs  are  deadly;  the  poison  they  use 
is  undiscoverable ;  the  devil  himself  is  their 
aid-de-camp.  Oh,  Your  Majesty,  permit 
me,  and  forgive  me  for  the  persistency,  per- 
mit me  to  issue  your  command  to  the  suite 
for  a  secret  departure  from  Paris  this  night  ? 
a  diplomatic  reason  is  easily  arranged  for 
your  going ;  one  has  not  too  much  to  dread 
from  the  displeasure  of  a  Republic  ?  "  Kalit- 
zin's  large  hand  grasps  the  arms  of  the 
Ruler's  chair  as  he  speaks. 

What  is  her  name?  "  asks  Alexander,  in 
a  curious  hushed  voice. 

"  She  goes  by  the  name  of  Princess  Kara 
Chreptovitch,"  is  the  response. 

"  And  she  lives  ?  " 

330 


and  Other  People 

At  number  twenty-eight,  Cours  la 
Reine." 

"  And  you  know  nothing  more  than  you 
have  said  ?  " 

Kalitzin  shakes  his  hoary  head. 
Nothing  as  yet ;  we  shall  have  to  spill  a 
man's  blood  each  day  in  sacrifice  to  their  dia- 
bolical methods,  in  order  to  find  out." 

She  has  baffled  you,  then?  "  remarks  the 
Ruler. 

"  I  confess  it,"  returns  the  old  man.  All 
I  know  I  have  told  Your  Majesty ;  those  two 
devils  yonder  laugh  in  derision  when  the 
words :  *  When  the  Tzar  is  Crowned  '  reach 
their  accursed  ears ;  and  they,  and  every- 
one of  the  three  millions — yes.  Your  Maj- 
esty, three  millions  of  Nihilists  scattered 
over  your  dominions  and  over  the  world, 
laugh  in  scorn,  when  they  read  those  words, 
when  they  hear  those  words  now  burning  on 
the  lips  of  the  civilized  globe;  they  swear 
that  the  coronation  shall  never  take  place ; 
they  swear  that  yonder  fiend,  with  your 
image  blazing  on  her  breast,  will  strike  you 
dead." 

"  Ah— h !  " 

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It  is  something  between  a  gasp  and  a 
sigh  that  parts  the  Tzar's  Hps  as  at  last,  his 
eyes  still  fixed,  as  were  hers  on  him,  on  the 
moth-like  girl  w^here  she  sat,  he  says : 

"  Kalitzin,  you  may  issue  orders  for  a  se- 
cret departure  from  Paris  to-night,  imme- 
diately on  our  reaching  the  hotel  after  the 
opera." 

"  Your  Majesty,  thank  God !  "  The  tears 
almost  glisten  in  the  old  soldier's  eyes. 

Once  in  Russia,  once  in  St.  Petersburg, 
far  from  that  devil's  den,  Geneva,  and  I  am 
master  of  the  situation,  safe,  sure.  But  not 
here,  within  range  of  that  ivory  looking 
w^oman." 

Alexander  gives  a  dismissing  nod. 

During  the  last  act  he  sits,  still  watching 
the  moth-like  girl,  and  now,  too,  the  painted 
boy. 

By  two  o'clock,  that  is  about  three  hours 
after  the  last  notes  of  Carmen  had  died  out 
in  the  opera-house  of  Paris,  five  carriages 
and  several  horsemen,  twelve  soldiers  of  the 
Russian  Imperial  Guard,  twenty  gens- 
d'armes  and  a  miscellaneous  following  of 
332 


and  Other  People 

grooms,  servants,  and  luggage  quitted  the 
Hotel  Continental  for  the  Gare  du  Nord. 

By  the  time  the  cavalcade,  which  aroused 
not  the  slightest  interest  in  the  few  revel- 
lers, street-sweepers,  and  early  market-men 
whom  it  encountered,  had  reached  the  rail- 
way station,  the  dim  film  of  violet  irides- 
cence, humid  harbinger  of  the  dawn,  stole 
up  the  horizon,  crept  across  the  rim,  curled 
in  the  tops  of  the  chestnut  flowers,  wakened 
the  birds,  drew  the  scent  from  the  earth  and 
grass  on  the  Cours  la  Reine,  that  matchless 
avenue,  and  at  last,  violet  melting  into 
golden  arms  of  risen  sun,  night  marrying 
with  day,  the  hymen-torch  of  their  nuptials 
struck  the  gilded  cupola  of  the  Invalides, 
and  kissed  the  sky  into  rosy  joy  at  birth  of 
yesterday's  to-morrow. 

At  one  of  the  windows  of  number  twenty- 
eight,  a  white  hand  opened  the  lattice,  dis- 
closing the  moth-like  girl  standing  in  her 
night-dress  breathing  in  the  pungent  air  of 
the  unsullied  morning,  the  lace  at  her  bosom 
fluttered  back  with  the  breeze,  revealing  on 
its  golden  chain  another  miniature  of  the 
Tzar ;  her  dull  locks  were  pushed  behind  her 
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The  New  Yorkers 


little  ears  and  fell  forlornly  in  two  rough 
braids  to  her  knees  ;  she  put  her  hand  up  and 
shaded  her  eyes  from  the  glint  of  fierce  cop- 
pery light  which  struck  them  from  the  dome 
of  the  Invalides ;  she  bent  listening,  for  a 
sharp  sound  as  of  the  click  of  a  cane  on  the 
pavem.ent,  attracted  her;  she  leaned  to  look 
out  and  beheld  the  painted  boy  coming  glibly 
in  the  porte-cochere.  Then  she  withdrew 
and  pulled  a  dressing-gown  of  red  cloth  over 
her  white  one,  pinned  up  her  braids  and  glid- 
ed to  the  door  of  the  room,  opened  it,  and 
meeting  him  on  the  landing,  drew  him  in 
with  anxious  gestures. 

"  Well,  my  princess !  "  cried  he,  with  a 
fawn's  grin  on  his  fat  face,  as  he  ran  his 
plump  fingers  through  his  well-oiled  curls 
and  cast  the  yellow  beret  on  the  sofa. 

Hast  no  word  for  me  after  my  absence, 
no  welcome  ?  " 

"  Liof  Mouravief,  I  have  told  thee  a  mil- 
lion times.  I  will  have  no  words  or  thoughts 
for  thee  or  any  other  man,  until  this  human 
vampire,"  the  moth-girl  holds  up  the  Tzar's 
miniature  as  she  speaks,  lies  dead  by  this 
hand.  What  hast  thou  found  out  since  T 
334 


and  Other  People 


parted  from  thee  at  the  opera-house  ?  I  am 
in  a  fever  of  impatience,  time  hangs  heavy 
on  my  hands  until  I  can  set  the  trap  and 
catch  the  Imperial  ermine.  Oh,  now  that  I 
have  seen  him,  gazed  upon  his  flesh  and 
bone,  my  nerve  is  steadier  for  the  deed,  my 
heart  happier,  my  whole  being  the  more  in- 
tensely, irrevocably  absorbed  in  the  fulfil- 
ment of  my  oath." 

The  moth-like  girl  is  pacing  up  and  down 
the  room,  her  hand  is  so  clenched  on  the 
Tzar's  miniature  as  to  cause  the  gems  en- 
crusting the  frame  to  cut  into  her  tender  fin- 
gers. She  pauses  under  the  chandelier,  the 
candles  are  still  lighted  but  sputtering  to 
their  end;  she  raises  her  arms  above  her 
head,  her  eyes  uplifted  as  she  goes  on : 

Oh,  my  Russia,  my  frozen,  bitten, 
whipped,  oppressed  country ;  bleeding  and 
sweating  at  every  pore  with  the  thin  blood  of 
starved,  tortured  men,  women,  and  children ; 
howling  with  the  million  cracked,  parched 
throats  that  choke  in  the  mines  of  Siberia; 
with  the  million  backs  breaking  back  into 
mother  earth  under  the  sting  of  the  lash  that 
goads  you,  because  you  have  dared  raise 
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The  New  Yorkers 


voice  against  the  despot  who  sits  upon  a 
throne  of  gold.  My  people,  shrieking  with 
your  more  than  million  tongues  to  me,  to  all 
of  us,  to  rescue,  to  avenge  you,  I  would  stick 
spurs  of  steel  red  hot  into  my  very  heart  did 
I  not  quiver  with  impatience  for  the  moment 
when  I  may  enmesh,  crush,  kill,  the  tyrant 
whose  hand  is  against,  and  never  for  you !  " 

She  has  dropped  upon  her  knees,  still 
holding  the  Tzar's  portrait  up  before  her. 

The  painted  boy  looks  at  her,  shrugs  his 
shoulders,  sighs,  and  then  crossing  to  the 
open  window  he  closes  it  sharply,  blows  out 
the  dying  candles,  lights  fresh  ones,  picks  up 
a  sponge,  wets  it  with  cologne  and  water  and 
washes  the  rouge  off  his  face ;  he  also  re- 
moves his  black  curls,  leaving  himself  there- 
after a  man,  pale,  golden-haired,  sombre, 
with  eyes  of  blue  fire,  devouring  in  speech- 
less greediness  the  beauty  of  the  moth-like 
girl. 

He  approaches  her  now,  and  lays  his  hand 
upon  her  head : 

She  shakes  off  his  touch  and  in  a  harsh 
voice  she  cries  out, 

"  Liof  Mouravief,  I  tell  thee,  no  man  shall 
336 


and  Other  People 

touch  me  until  I  have  accomplished  my  mis- 
sion. What  news  have  you?  Where  sups 
he  to-night  ?  How  soon  wilt  thou  snap  the 
pretty  bracelet  on  my  wrist,  how  soon  may 
I  set  the  watch  in  motion  and  throw  it  away  ? 
Tell  me." 

Liof  Mouravief  turns  moodily  off. 

**  Alexander  and  his  suite  quitted  Paris 
two  hours  ago." 

"  What !  and  the  deed  not  yet  done !  " 
Their  destination  St.  Petersburg.  The 
information  brought  them  by  that  wretch 
Petro  Petrovitch — by  the  way,  he  is  dead — 
has  set  them  agog.  Kalitzin's  eyes  were 
upon  us." 

"  Us!  and  has  he  found  ways  to  discover 
that  I  am  aught  save  the  Princess  Chrepto- 
vitch?" 

"  He  has.  While  you  were  staring  at  the 
Tzar  last  night,  the  Tzar  was  staring  at  you, 
and  no  doubt  Kalitzin,  at  his  elbow  was  iden- 
tifying you  for  his  accursed  master's  bene- 
fit." 

The  girl  pauses. 

"  Well,  what  of  it?  We  will  never  come 
in  contact.  If  he  has  returned  to  Russia  we 
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The  New  Yorkers 


can  do  the  same ;  our  passports  are  unim- 
peachable :  our  credentials  perfect :  and — by 
the  living  God — "  she  again  holds  up  the 
miniature.  "  I  swear  that  if  these  eyes  once 
again  behold  the  tyrant,  they  shall  not  quit 
their  gaze  till  his  are  sightless  in  death. 

Liof !  "  she  whispers,  we  have  wasted 
too  much  time  already;  do  you  make  the 
preparations  for  our  departuure  on  to-mor- 
row night,  and  before  I  live  another  hour 
without  it,  give  me  the  bracelet ;  here,  clasp 
it  on  my  arm,  let  me  eat,  sleep,  move,  know- 
ing that  the  little  dainty  bomb,  light  as  a  dia- 
mond, easily  thrown  as  a  flower,  is  where  I 
can  reach  and  use  it  at  a  second's  warn- 
ing." 

Liof  shook  his  head  angrily :  he  loved  this 
woman  and  was  biding  his  time  to  make  her 
his  wife. 

"  I  will  keep  it  until  the  time  comes,"  he 
says  sternly ;  "  that  is  part  of  my  duty." 

You  will  give  it  to  me  now,"  she  says, 
gritting  her  white  fox  teeth  together,  and 
adding,  with  that  celestial  smile  up  into  his 
face  which  such  women  have,  "  if  you  love 
me,  as  I'm  sure  you  do." 

338 


and  Other  People 

He  transferred  the  devilish  bauble  to  her 
wrist,  blessing  fate  for  the  chance  to  finger 
that  adorable  white  arm. 

That  evening  the  Princess  Kara  Chrepto- 
vitch  received,  as  usual,  on  Thursdays.  A 
great  crowd  of  clever  people  were  always 
to  be  found  in  her  salon  last  winter,  you  will 
easily  remember,  if  you  chanced  to  have  been 
then  in  Paris;  personages,  many  of  them, 
in  the  social,  literary,  art,  and  dramatic 
worlds;  others  to  fill  in;  clever  men  and 
women  too,  but  indistinctive,  each  glad  to  be 
in  the  house  of  the  original  Princess,  who 
was  so  enthusiastic  in  her  patriotic  devotion 
to  her  Tzar. 

She  stood  there  now,  her  yellow  hair  once 
more  looped  in  those  strange  little  wings, 
and  sprayed  and  woven  into  meshy  masses 
at  the  back,  a  little  coronet  of  topazes  glim- 
mered on  top  of  it,  and  she  was  dressed  in 
the  national  sarafan,  the  loose,  square- 
necked,  sleeveless  gown  of  yellow  satin, 
worn  over  a  full-sleeved  yellow  calico  che- 
mise, thin  woven  yellow  sandals  on  her  feet, 
and  long  yellow  gloves  on  her  hands ;  the 
miniature  of  the  Tzar  shone  on  her  bosom, 
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The  New  Yorkers 


and  the  painted  boy,  posing  cheerily  as  her 
brother,  flitted  near  her. 

There  was  music,  something  half  bar- 
baric, sensuous,  sweet,  sounding  out  from 
the  rear  of  the  ante-room ;  everyone  was 
chattering  with  much  laughter  and  gayety, 
when  the  servant  entered,  and  approached 
Kara  Chreptovitch  with  a  card  and  a  great 
heavy  heap  of  purple  sweetness  on  his  sal- 
ver. 

She  took  the  card,  and  the  scent  of  the 
violets  greeted  her,  as  if  one  with  the  lus- 
ciousness  of  the  music. 

She  read  the  name. 

"  Alexis  Tzof,"  and  beneath  was  written: 
A  fellow-countryman,  a  stranger,  a  sym- 
pathizer, begs  the  honor  of  permission  to  pay 
his  respects  to  the  Princess  Kara  Chrepto- 
vitch." 

In  an  instant  the  painted  boy  was  beside 
her ;  he  had  read  the  card,  thrown  it  in  the 
fire,  the  flame  of  suspicion,  which  is  the 
familiar  of  such  people,  leaping  to  his  face, 
and  the  violets  went  after  the  card,  he  stand- 
ing between  Kara  and  the  fire,  not  to  be  sur- 
prised if  an  explosion  should  follow. 

But  none  did. 

340 


and  Other  People 


Nothing  worse  occurred  than  that  the 
stranger,  possibly  tired  of  waiting  in  the 
ante-room,  now  entered  the  salon,  and  made 
his  way  directly  to  the  hostess. 

Alexis  Tzof  was  a  young  man  noticeable 
above  all  others,  not  on  account  of  his  height 
which  was  great  or  the  splendor  of  his  phy- 
sique, or  the  perfection  of  his  toilette,  or  his 
beauty,  but  for  his  atmosphere  which  was 
unique,  commanding,  demanding,  and  ob- 
taining pre-eminence  wherever  he  was.  He 
was  fair,  with  a  face  as  smooth  as  a  girl's 
and  as  strong  as  a  lion's  whelp,  beautiful 
white  teeth  and  eyes  of  tourmaline ;  they 
rested  with  an  expression  most  caressing 
upon  Kara's  face,  and  instantly  she  felt  a 
shiver  pass  over  her ;  he  bent  his  head,  took 
her  hand  in  his  large  strong  white  one; 
raised  it  to  his  lips ;  as  he  did  so,  the  rays 
from  a  cat's  eye,  which  he  wore  upon  his 
finger,  met  those  of  the  diamonds  surround- 
ing the  Princess's  portrait  of  the  Tzar ;  the 
flash  seemed  electric,  it  smote  Kara  and  half 
blinded  her ;  she  stood  nerveless,  passive,  re- 
sistless while  the  newcomer,  well  watched 
by  Liof  Mouravief ,  spoke : 
341 


The  New  Yorkers 


What  did  he  say  ? 

Such  things  as  all  women  love  to  hear. 
That  unseen,  he  had  gazed  upon  her,  fol- 
lowed her,  shadowed  her;  unable  to  obtain 
presentation,  he  had  at  last,  in  desperation, 
resorted  to  this  means  of  gaining  her  ac- 
quaintance; that  he  was  amply  prepared  to 
satisfy  her  and  her  brother,  as  to  his  identity 
and  qualifications,  and  so  forth  and  so  on. 

Kara  Chreptovitch  listened  as  one  listens 
in  dreams  that  are  sweet,  dreading  the 
awakening;  thereafter  all  the  evening  her 
guests  float  before  her  as  misty  creatures, 
films  dwarfed  into  nonentities  by  this  sur- 
passing being  so  full  of  strength,  possessive- 
ness,  power,  newness. 

The  painted  boy  was  uneasy  and  alert ;  he 
thought  he  detected  beneath  all  this  para- 
phernalia a  secret  emissary  of  Kalitzin's, 
and  he  was  very  wary. 

As  one  by  one,  finally  almost  the  last  of 
the  company  were  leaving,  he  contrived  to 
convey  as  much  to  Kara. 

She  started,  rubbing  her  eyes  as  a  child 
disturbed  in  its  refreshing  sleep. 

The  last  person  had  now  quitted  the  salon, 
342 


and  Other  People 

except  Tzof ;  he  too  was  at  the  door,  but  he 
turned  with  a  quick  and  gallant  motion  and 
was  beside  Kara ;  the  painted  boy,  keen  for 
mischief,  had  his  hand  on  his  pistol  in  his 
little  pocket,  while  the  stranger  spoke. 

Excellent  sir,"  Tzof  said  quietly,  while  a 
faint  smile  of  amusement  played  upon  his 
full  red  lips,  delay  a  little ;  I  assure  you, 
with  me  you  will  have  no  use  for  your 
weapon." 

The  painted  boy  still  held  it  fast  however ; 
conspirators  are  firm  believers  in  the  univer- 
sality of  conspiracies. 

"  Madame,"  with  a  profound  inclination 
before  the  Princess ;  "  I  have  noted  both 
here  and  everywhere,  that  I  have  had  the 
honor  to  behold  you,  that  you  wear  the  por- 
trait of  the  man  they  call  the  Tzar  of  Rus- 
sia," an  inflection  a  trifle  sad,  a  trifle  su- 
percilious strikes  the  ears  of  his  two  listen- 
ers. 

Madame,  I  have  of  late  been  in  Gene- 
va ; "  his  voice  lowers  to  a  mere  whisper  as 
he  glanced  around  cautiously,  for  at  the 
mention  of  that  Swiss  city,  both  Kara  and 
Liof  could  not  forbear  a  start  of  bewilder- 
ment and  apprehension. 

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The  New  Yorkers 


"  There,"  continued  Tzof,  "  where  you 
frequented  not  long  since,  I  too  have  been 
familiar.  I  mean  in  the  small  shop  of  Serge 
Prost  in  the  Rue  Sturm." 

The  eyes  of  Kara  and  Liof  dart  against 
each  other  like  the  play  of  criss-cross  light- 
ning. 

The  words  you  have  heard  I  too  have 
listened  to."  Now  his  tones  sink  even 
lower,  and  articulation  is  scarcely  more  than 
mere  breathing. 

"  When  the  Tzar  is  Crowned,"  murmurs 
Alexis  Tzof,  fixing  his  peculiar  orbs  on  the 
face  of  Kara  Chreptovitch. 

The  painted  boy  takes  his  hand  from  his 
pocket. 

The  Princess  shudders  as  her  glance  is 
dissolved  in  his^  absorbed  by  his,  shudders 
with  the  perfect,  heretofore  unknown  bliss 
of  actual  vital  divine  loving. 

And  they  three  sit  there  with  close-drawn 
curtains  late  into  the  night,  even  until  once 
more  the  dawn  pricks  all  the  East  with  rose, 
and  quenches  the  stars,  and  re-awakens  the 
world  to  its  new  round  of  labor  and  sweat. 


344 


and  Other  People 


It  had  been  planned  by  the  Princess  and 
Liof  Mouravief  to  quit  Paris  for  St.  Peters- 
burg the  night  following  the  Tzar's  sudden 
departure ;  it  has  been  told  how  anxious  was 
Kara  Chreptovitch  to  go,  to  place  herself  at 
once  within  reach  of  her  intended  victim. 

Very  well;  but  they  did  not  quit  Paris. 
So  often  does  it  happen  that  the  desire  of 
yesterday  burns  out  in  the  teeth  of  to-day's 
bite. 

The  painted  boy  was  for  departure. 

The  Princess  made  excuse  of  not  being 
well ;  he  stared ;  she  was  unresponsive,  lan- 
guid, indolent,  lying  at  length  on  her  lounge, 
full  of  absent-mindedness,  with  lowered  lids. 

Alexis  Tzof  came  again  that  evening,  and 
while  she  should  have  been  journeying  post- 
haste to  the  frontier,  she  languished  amid 
warmth,  downy  cushions  at  her  feet  and 
head,  listening  to  the  music  of  his  voice. 

The  painted  boy  played  the  piano  until  he 
was  tired,  and  then  he  went  out  in  the  little 
garden  and  smoked,  peeping  in  at  the  win- 
dows in  jealous  rage  at  these  two,  compla- 
cent, quiet,  content,  if,  for  no  other  reasons 
than  that  they  had  at  last  met,  when  it  now 
345 


The  New  Yorkers 


appeared  to  them  that  they  must  have  been 
waiting  to  meet  since  the  world  began. 

What  did  they  speak  of? 

Naught  but  themselves;  naught  but  that 
supreme  theme  which  Adam  and  Eve,  mak- 
ing primal  awakening  in  one  another's  arms, 
found  sweeter  than  any  other  ever  to  be 
mentioned  again. 

This  went  on  for  a  fortnight. 

Always  the  St.  Petersburg  journey  put 
off ;  always  Alexis  Tzof  each  day,  and  even- 
ing too.  Always  the  painted  boy  a  little 
dull,  but  watchful  and  patient,  till  now. 

He  raged  up  and  down  in  front  of  her,  his 
light  eyes  swimming  in  tears  of  anger  and 
passion. 

"  I  tell  you  it  must  stop.  I  will  not  have 
it ;  you  are  betrothed  to  me ;  you  are  bound 
by  a  sacred  vow  to  end  the  tyrant.  You! 
once  most  eager  to  plunge  the  knife,  to 
throw  the  little  bomb  there  on  your  wrist, 
You!  forsooth  must  linger  on  feting  and 
pleasuring  here  in  Paris.  Why?  Because 
a  tall  man  is  become  your  hero,  your  slave 
and  your  master,  both  in  one.  Kara,  if  you 
do  not  come  at  once  to  Peterburg  I  will 
346 


and  Other  People 

kill  your  lover  and  denounce  you  to  the  lead- 
ers at  Geneva." 

Lashed  into  a  fine  fury,  the  painted  boy  in 
his  little  yellow  beret  and  his  evening  clothes 
— for  it  was  now  nine  o'clock,  and  guests,  as 
usual,  were  expected  in  the  Princess's  salon 
— dashed  up  and  down,  smashing  a  few  cups 
and  saucers  en  route. 

Kara  looked  at  him;  how  impotent,  how 
silly  he  was ;  she  shrugged  her  shoulders 
and  twisted  the  iron  bracelet  around  on  her 
arm  with  a  smile. 

"  My  friend,  cease  upbraiding  me.  I 
promise  you,"  Kara  rose  and  shook  herself, 
much  as  one  does  on  rising  from  slumber 
that  has  been  long-sought  fruitlessly.  I 
promise  you  as  to  the  tyrant,  within  forty 
hours  from  to-morrow,  either  he  or  I  will 
be  no  more."  She  sighs,  for  Alexis  Tzof 
has  stolen  all  the  tang,  and  smart,  and  bit- 
ter, out  of  her  oath.  Yet  she  knows  it  must 
be  kept. 

"And  me!  me!  What  of  me?"  almost  " 
shrieks  the  painted  boy  at  her  ear. 

"  You ! "  the   Princess  stares  at  him. 
"  You  can  do  nothing,  be  nothing,  say  noth- 
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The  New  Yorkers 


ing,  until  this  bracelet  has  done  its  work. 
Run  away,"  she  says  lightly,  "  and  play  the 
piano,  and  compose  yourself;  I  hear  foot- 
steps." 

The  guests  came ;  they  ate  and  drank,  and 
made  merry. 

The  guests  went,  all  save  Alexis  Tzof. 

Mouravief  also  had  gone  to  see  to  the  lug- 
gage, for  they  were  to  start  in  a  few  hours 
for  Russia. 

Kara  Chreptovitch  stood  leaning  against 
the  marble  statue  of  Aphrodite,  her  hands 
were  clasped  in  front  of  her,  her  arms  so 
encircling  the  portrait  of  the  Tzar.  She 
was  looking  down  ;  she  trembled  ;  she  knew 
that  the  wonderful  divine  moment  of  life 
had  come;  she  knew  that  unspeakable  joy 
stepped  across  her  threshold,  entering  in, 
and  giving  her  new  birth,  as  Tzof  drew  near 
to  her. 

He  came  half  as  conqueror,  half  as  suppli- 
ant, with  outstretched,  pleading  hands,  with 
beseeching  eyes,  with  a  victorious  soul  quiv- 
ering in  every  fibre  of  his  great  body. 

"  Kara,"  he  whispered,  Kara,  beloved 
one,  it  is  something  with  you  as  it  is  with 
348 


and  Other  People 


me,  is  it  not  ?  Speak,  sweet  love,  and  say  to 
me  that  thou  lovest  me  one  tithe  as  well  as 
I  love  thee?  Oh,  'tis  not  love,  my  wor- 
shipped lady,"  cries  he,  falling  on  his  knees 
before  her  and  reaching  up  to  clasp  her  slen- 
der waist.  "  It  is  idolatry ;  for  thee  I  would 
throw  away  a  world  ;  for  thee  I  would  resign 
all  that  men  crave ;  for  thee  honor,  life.  Em- 
pires, principalities,  all  weigh  as  nothing. 
Speak  to  me,  my  dove,  one  word !  " 

I  love  thee,"  Kara  Chreptovitch  whis- 
pers, bending,  drawn  by  his  strong  arms,  to 
meet  the  craving  of  his  lips  on  hers. 

I  love  thee,  but  my  oath,  my  mission, 
too  long  have  tarried ;  this  night  must  see  me 
on  the  way  to  St.  Petersburgh  to  fulfil  my 
destiny." 

"  And  thou  canst  talk  of  destinies  when 
this  moment  makes  our  destinies  one !  Be- 
loved, dost  think  I  will  allow  thee  to  separate 
from  me_,  risk  thyself,  who  dost  now  belong 
to  me  ? "  Tzof  holds  the  moth-like  girl 
close  to  his  breast  with  both  arms  about  her, 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  face  in  unutterable 
tenderness. 

"  To  me,"  he  repeats  rapturously,  pushing 
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The  New  Yorkers 


back  the  small  winglike  loops  of  her  dull 
hair. 

No,  thou  art  mine,  and  never  shalt  thou 
endanger  one  hair  of  thy  head  for  any 
cause  or  people,  or  tyrant,  or  oath,  on  God's 
earth !  " 

A  sound  comes  up  through  the  silent 
house;  it  is  the  creak  of  the  painted  boy's 
boots;  the  Princess  breaks  her  bonds,  she 
stands  like  some  hunted  wild  thing,  beaten 
by  cruel  dogs  into  a  last  unavailing  court ; 
the  boots  of  the  painted  boy  creak  nearer. 

"  Oh  !  "  cries  she.  "  Away  from  me  ; 
tempt  me  no  more,  or  I  cannot  withstand. 
My  oath  must  be  kept.  Alexis  Tzof,  if  I  ac- 
complish my  mission  and  live,  then  I  am 
thine  own ;  if  not,  farewell." 

Tzof  approaches  her. 

"  Then,"  he  says,  simply,  standing  there 
in  the  flicker  of  the  firelight,  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder. 

"  Keep  your  oath,  now,  this  moment,  for  I 
am  Alexander  the  Tzar." 

Smitten,  blinded,  stunned,  she  cowers  at 
the  base  of  the  statue  of  Aphrodite,  Vv-hich 
is  no  whiter  than  she. 

350 


and  Other  People 


Thou/'  she  murmurs,  creeping  slowly  to 
him.  "  Thou !  "  And  the  music  in  her 
voice  is  of  heaven,  so  touching,  so  tender, 
as  she  draws  down  his  beardless  face  to  her 
arms  and  strokes  and  caresses  it  with  cold, 
trembling  little  fingers. 

"  I,  even  I,"  he  says,  holding  her  to  his 
heart. 

"  And  I  have  now  thy  image  on  my  heart 
for  eighteen  long  months,  and  not  to  know 
thee  when  I  saw  thee  bare  of  beard."  All 
these  few  moments  she  is  caressing  his  face, 
his  throat,  his  hands. 

The  boots  of  Liof  Mouravief  now  creak 
on  the  staircase. 

The  moth-like  girl  rises. 

She  drags  herself  the  whole  length  of  the 
very  long  room,  while  Alexis  Tzof  crosses 
down  to  the  other  end  to  meet  the  painted 
boy. 

He  meets  him. 

Neither  sees  the  woman. 

She  wrests  the  iron  bracelet  from  her 
wrist,  and,  snatching  the  bomb,  light  as  a 
blossom  from  its  jeweled  socket,  she  raises 
her  arm  and  drops  it,  snapping,  at  her  own 
feet. 

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The  New  Yorkers 


A  sharp  report;  a  dull  thud,  two  weak 
woman's  hands  clasped  on  the  portrait  of  the 
Tzar  on  her  bosom. 

Death  lay  between  the  two  men  who  knelt 
at  either  side  of  Kara  Chreptovitch. 

"  When  the  Tzar  is  Crowned,"  mutters 
Liof  Mouravief,  turning  over  the  miniature 
and  reading  the  five  words  so  engraved  on  it, 
^  and  then  beginning  to  weep  and  to  pray. 
^  But  Alexander  the  Tzar  said  nothing,  only 
raised  her,  and  laid  her  on  the  sofa,  and 
kissed  her  on  the  mouth,  and  went  out  of 
her  house,  and  back  to  his  own  country  to 
his  own  family  and  people. 


352 


THE  SPIRIT  TRAVELLER 


THE  SPIRIT  TRAVELLER 

Late  one  August,  while  I  was  looking 
forward  to  shooting  on  the  moors,  breezy 
walks  and  breezier  rides,  a  certain  visit  at  a 
certain  box  belonging  to  an  old  friend  of  my 
father,  and  to  the  meeting  of  this  worthy's 
lovely  little  daughter,  I  was  suddenly  called 
back  to  Cheshire  on  important  family  busi- 
ness. I  took  the  8. 20  p.m.  train  from  the 
North  British,  and  discovered,  when  it  was 
too  late  to  rectify  the  mistake,  that  I  had 
been  given  a  second  instead  of  a  first-class 

ticket  for  L  ,  where  I  hoped  to  spend  the 

night  comfortably  at  the  Grosvenor,  an  old 
stopping-place  of  mine,  en  route  between 
England  and  Scotland. 

However,  I  gave  a  decent  tip  to  the  guard, 
and  found  myself  tolerably  well  off ;  alone, 
and  with  a  locked  door,  a  package  of  good 
cigars,  my  rug,  and  a  note  in  a  dainty  hand, 
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The  New  Yorkers 


which  I  read  and  re-read  with  strange  satis- 
faction. Presently  my  meditations  were  in- 
terrupted by  a  trial  at  the  door;  it  was  a 
quick,  decisive  touch  and  go,  unlike  the  usu- 
al rattle  of  disappointed  rage,  that  attacks 
a  barred  entrance  to  a  railway  coach. 

In  a  moment  more,  the  opposite  door  was 
quietly  opened  and  a  large  man,  with  a  small 
travelling  portmanteau,  got  in  before  my  as- 
tonished eyes,  and  seated  himself  composed- 
ly on  the  opposite  seat.  I  smiled  to  myself 
at  the  savoir  faire  and  the  agility  of  the  man 
whose  determination  and  spirit,  in  creeping 
beneath  the  coach  at  the  risk  of  his  life,  to 
attain  the  quiet  and  comfort  of  travel  with 
one  fellow-passenger,  instead  of  the  allowed 
and  allotted  ten,  struck  me  as  most  amusing. 

No  lamp  had  as  yet  been  placed  in  the 
coach.  It  was  a  luxury  I  momentarily  hoped 
for,  so  as  to  read  once  more  the  little  letter 
I  held.  But  even  by  the  dimming  twilight, 
I  could  see  that  my  companion  was  a  man 
of  uncommon  size,  and  the  possessor  of  a 
face  of  unusual  power,  if  of  sparse  refine- 
ment; his  eyes  were  like  a  falcon's,  and  in 
less  than  two  minutes,  their  rapid  inclusive 
356 


and  Other  People 


flash,  seemed  to  have  measured  me  by  some 
intuitive  standard  of  their  own. 

Smoke,  sir  ?  "  I  inquired,  laconically, 
extending  my  case  to  him,  desiring,  I  know 
not  why,  to  be  on  good  terms  with  this  per- 
son, who  might  after  all  be  going  to  aUght 
at  the  next  station,  and  whose  society,  at 
longest,  I  should  quit  at  midnight. 

Thank  ye,  na,"  he  replied,  in  an  unmis- 
takable Scotch  accent.  "  Fve  no  small 
vices,"  he  added,  with  a  hearty,  healthy 
laugh.  "  Plenty  o'  the  big  uns,  though,  to 
make  up  for  the  wee  deficiencies !  "  I  laugh- 
ingly shrugged  my  shoulders,  in  reply. 
"  You're  no'  a  Scotsman  ?  "  he  asked,  pres- 
ently. 

"  No ;  the  next  best  thing,"  I  answered, 
half-ironically,  "  an  Englishman  !  " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  they're  a  fair  people — a  fair 
people — but  it's  no'  a  fair  country.  Give  me 
auld  Scotia  wi'  her  braes  and  her  moors,  her 
hielands  and  lowlands,  her  lochs  and  her 
burns.  Hark !  "  he  exclaimed,  as  the  train 
slowed  in  approaching  a  little  manufactur- 
ing town  by  a  riverside,  heard  ye  ever  a 
music  like  that  frae  any  English  brook,  as  ye 
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The  New  Yorkers 


call  them?  "  I  bent  my  attentive  ear  to  the 
window  at  my  side. 

Bide  a  wee,  bide  a  wee.  There,  noo ; 
ye  can  hear  the  laugh  o'  the  Galla  water." 
Truly,  it  was  like  a  girl's  rippling  laugh,  full 
of  mischief  and  mirth ;  and,  by  the  Hght  of 
the  stars  I  could  see  it  hurrying  along  over 
the  stones,  and  between  the  long,  green 
grasses,  and  under  the  bending  beech- 
boughs.  It  was  only  one  of  those  burns  so 
common  in  Scotland,  and  so  dear  to  her  sons. 

"  D'ye  hear  it,  mon ;  d'ye  hear  it !  "  cried 
my  companion,  excitedly,  rising  and  leaning 
out  of  the  open  sash,  gazing  with  a  peculiar 
wistfulness  across  the  meadow,  where  the 
sheep  slept,  to  the  laughing,  murmuring 
Galla  water. 

Yes,"  I  responded,  "  there  is  an  odd 
sound  to  its  rush,  certainly :  a  sort  of  wild 
merriment,  as  it  dances  on,  winding  in  and 
out  of  the  moors  and  fields,  slipping  under 
bridges,  playing  hide-and-seek  with  itself  as 
it  travels  southward." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  whispered  dreamily ;  "  she 
had  ever  a  yearning  after  the  south ;  she's 
hurrying  thither  the  night,  I'm  thinking." 
358 


and  Other  People 

I  looked  up  at  him  in  undisguised  conster- 
nation. Was  my  travelling  companion  mad, 
or  merely  poetical  ?  The  latter  phase  seemed 
almost  impossible  with  his  exterior. 

"  Ye're  wondering  about  me?  "  he  queried 
sharply,  drawing  his  head  in  with  a  jerk  and 
seating  himself,  as  the  train  rolled  slowly  out 
of  the  small  station.  "  Ah,"  with  a  deep  and 
almost  a  heart-rending  sigh,  mon,  mon, 
that  same  Galla  water  brought  me  an  angel 
— and  took  an  angel  away  frae  me  again !  " 
He  passed  his  large  hand  over  his  face  as  if 
to  smooth  away  some  sign  of  poignant  trou- 
ble, and  for  a  time  was  silent,  as  we  sped  on 
through  the  darkness. 

After  the  lapse  of  perhaps  half  an  hour 
the  train  came  to  a  dead  stop;  apparently, 
from  the  scattered  lights  we  saw  shining 
dimly  by  the  way,  in  the  suburbs  of  some 
town;  presently,  the  guard  coming  along, 
we  learned  that  the  cause  of  our  detention 
was  the  centenary  of  the  Trade  Guilds  which 
had  been  celebrated  at  Preston  that  day — 
that  the  roads  were  lined  with  extra  trains, 
so  loaded  as  to  cause  alarm,  and  so  ingen- 
iously started  as  to  preclude  the  possibility 
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of  anyone  of  them  getting  to  its  destination 
anything  under  three  hours  behind  time ! 
The  man  assured  us  that  the  rush  and  crowd 
we  might  expect  at  the  next  station  would 
be  quite  appalHng.  Finally  we  crept  on- 
ward, the  lights  grew  thicker,  and  I  mentally 
prepared  myself  for  a  dozen  or  more  smok- 
ing, and  probably  half-intoxicated  roughs  as 
future  sharers  of  the  carriage  with  me  and 
my  erratic  companion. 

The  roar  of  thousands  of  angry  voices 
broke  upon  my  ear,  as  we  rolled  into  the 
great  station :  in  another  instant  a  dozen 
hardy  fists  were  battering  at  our  locked 
door,  and  curious  eyes  were  glaring  wrath- 
fully  in  at  our  roomy  comfort.  As  to 
their  language,  the  slangy  jeers  and  voluble 
indignation  of  the  British  mob  is  as  well  left 
to  the  imagination. 

My  fellow-traveller  was  serene  under  the 
fire :  he  even  smiled  as  the  door-handle  rat- 
tled, and  the  door  shook  beneath  the  heavy 
artillery,  momently  growing  more  impatient 
without,  as  they  yelled  for  the  guard  to  open 
for  them. 

"  We  will  have  to  succumb ! 

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and  Other  People 


"  De'il  a  bit !  "  replied  my  Scotch  friend. 

Be  quiet,  mon,  and  I'll  show  ye  the  tune 
that  always  plays  for  success  !  "  There  was 
a  curious  fire  in  his  cool  eyes  as  he  spoke, 
that  made  me  rather  incline  to  the  company 
of  the  great  unwashed.  To  speak  the  truth, 
there  was  a  something  uncanny "  about 
the  man,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I 
would  as  lief  share  his  society  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  night  with  a  few  other  peo- 
ple. 

The  guard  finally  arrived,  the  door  was 
unlocked,  my  companion  sprang  out  with  a 
bound,  merely  answering  the  new  guard's 
"  Good-evening,  sir,"  with  a  curt  nod ;  the 
crowd  entered,  not  the  allotted  nine,  but 
twenty  at  the  least,  all  men ;  while  women, 
struggling  with  babies  in  their  arms  were 
pushed  and  buffeted  aside  without  mercy  on 
the  platform. 

"  Who  is  that  person?  "  I  queried  of  the 
guard,  while  the  people  about  me  were  tak- 
ing possession  with  jeers  of  the  carriage,  the 
racks,  and  every  available  inch  of  space  on 
the  floor  unoccupied  by  my  two  feet. 

Yon?  "  said  the  man,  jerking  his  thumb 
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over  his  shoulder  in  the  direction  in  which 
my  Scotchman  had  gone. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  while  a  burly  individ- 
ual seated  himself  literally  upon  me,  and  I 
rebelled. 

"  Yon's  a  spirit  traveller,  sir." 

"  A  what  ?  "  I  cried ;  receiving  an  invader 
on  my  other  knee,  with  almost  a  feeling  of 
joy. 

But  ere  the  guard  could  reply,  the  "  spirit 
traveller  "  himself  appeared  at  the  carriage- 
door,  and  was  greeted  with  hoots  and  cries 
of  contemptuous  triumph  by  my  twenty 
companions. 

"  Noo,  then,  gentlemen !  "  he  cried.  "  Are 
ye  all  mad  ?  Jimmy  !  "  turning  to  the  guard, 

are  ye  no  afraid  o'  losing  ye're  place  " — 
jeers  and  screams — wi'  letting  decent  folks 
in  wi'  a  mon  that  holds  their  lives  in  his 
hand,  like  yon  ?  "  pointing  to  me.  "  Oot  wi' 
ye,  oot  wi'  ye,  all !  "  cried  he,  in  a  voice  of 
mingled  alarm  and  command,  yon's  a  lu- 
natic, and  a  dangerous  one,  I  be  taking  to 
Hanwell !  "  Almost  before  the  last  words 
had  escaped  his  lips  the  carriage  was  emp- 
tied of  its  passengers — every  one  of  them 
362 


and  Other  People 

save  myself.  The  "  spirit  traveller  "  leaped 
in,  closed  the  door  with  a  bang,  and  as  we 
steamed  slowly  off,  fell  back  in  a  corner  con- 
vulsed with  laughter. 

I  cannot  say,  with  any  degree  of  accuracy, 
that  I  shared  either  his  mirth  or  his  triumph. 
In  the  almost  total  darkness,  for  we  had  no 
lamp  as  yet,  with  hours  of  slow  travel  before 
me,  shut  up  with  this  person,  whose  sanity  I 
now  questioned  more  than  ever,  I  felt  that 
a  crowd  of  London  roughs  was  preferable. 
There  was,  however,  nothing  to  be  done  but 
endure  the  situation. 

"  There  be  ways  and  ways  i'  this  weary 
world,"  he  finally  exclaimed,  with  a  conclud- 
ing peal  of  merriment.  I  smiled  a  feeble 
assent,  and  wondered  if  it  would  not  be  bet- 
ter to  recall  his  attention  to  the  braes  and 
burns  of  his  native  land. 

"  Where  are  we  now  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Blankshire.  Going  southward  always, 
following  the  course  o'  the  streams.  Yon's 
Galla  water  again."  He  peered  out  into  the 
darkness.  "  Ye  cannot  see  the  silvery  thread 
winding  in  and  out  there,  maybe,  but  I  can. 
I  have  a  pair  o'  eyes  within  here,"  he  tapped 
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The  New  Yorkers 


his  forehead  significantly  as  he  spoke,  "  as 
makes  me  see  what  ithers  canna." 

I  instinctively  ruminated  vaguely  and  not 
pleasurably  upon  mediums,  mesmerizers, 
charlatans,"  and  I  know  not  what  other  spir- 
itual agents. 

"  Their  names  are  memory  and  love !  " 
he  adds,  in  a  voice  low,  soft,  well-nigh  thrill- 
ing in  its  tenderness. 

I  glance  over  at  him  with  renewed  inter- 
est. He  must  feel  rather  than  see  it,  for  we 
are  in  absolute  darkness  ;  rain  has  set  in,  and 
the  drops  beat  fast  upon  the  panes,  as  we 
speed  onward. 

"  I  told  ye  the  Galla  water  brought  me  an 
angel,"  he  says  presently,  "  so  it  did — so  it 
did !  It  was  a  morning  in  June.  I  was  a 
young  lad  then^  no  more  than  twenty  or  so, 
and  a  home  lad.  I  knew  naught  of  foreign 
parts  or  ways,  had  never  been  outside  of 
my  own  shire.  Well,  a  morning  in  June, 
early  four,  or  thereabouts ;  I  was  up  and 
off  down  to  the  river-meadows  to  look  after 
my  sheep,  when  my  mother  called  me. 
'  Sandy,*  says  she,  '  I  hear  summat  below, 
yon,  at  the  water-side.  Whisht !  do  ye  no 
364 


and  Other  People 

hear  till  it?  it  he's  like  the  wailing — nay, 
nay !  —  like  the  laughing  o'  a  bairn ! ' 
*  Pshaw,  mither ! '  says  I ;  '  ye're  no'  fairly 
out  o'  your  sleep  yet.  I  only  hear  Galla 
water,  laughing  away  over  the  pebbles.'  I 
went,  my  way ;  and  she  stood,  shading  her 
eyes  wi'  her  hand,  watching  me  out  o'  sight. 
Well,  sir,  what  d'ye  think?  When  I  got 
down  to  the  burnside,  where  the  sheep  stood 
drinking  and  waiting  for  me  to  come  with 
their  bit  o'  salt,  I  found  something  else  wait- 
ing for  me  there,  too.  It  was  a  bairn  !  a  wee, 
smiling  thing  of  four  years,  maybe,  with  its 
little  bare  feet  dabbling  in  the  water,  and  its 
twa  wee  hands  clappit  together,  and  its  blue 
eyes  dancing  in  the  sunshine,  and  its  red  lips 
laughing — laughing  up  at  me!  The  flock 
was  not  afraid  of  her,  they  cropped  close  to 
her  bonny  gold  head,  and  the  words  she 
spoke,  perhaps  they  understood  them,  I 
could  not.  Folks  said  it  was  French,  sir; 
but  I  knew  better.  It  was  some  language 
of  the  burn,  the  bonny  burn,  that  brought 
her  to  me  that  morning,  long  agone  !  "  The 
"  spirit  traveller "  sighed  heavily,  as  he 
leaned  forward  and  rested  his  forehead  in 
his  palms. 

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I  was,  by  this  time,  fully  impressed  with 
the  belief  that  my  new  acquaintance  was 
what  is  popularly  called  a  medium,  and 
doubtless  the  local  dialect  translated  this 
into  spirit  traveller."  I  was,  too,  vastly 
interested  in  his  story,  and  no  doubt  by  my 
attentive  attitude,  dimly  discernible  in  the 
gloom,  testified  as  much. 

There  was  a  bit  boat  found  away  down 
the  river,  by  Melrose^  and  folks  said  that  a 
young  woman,  speaking  a  foreign  tongue, 
had  been  seen  lurking  about  the  shire  for 
some  days  past,  with  a  child  in  her  arms, 
and  that  later  on,  she  was  seen  without  the 
bairn.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  believe,  sir,  the 
Galla  water  brought  my  wee  Jeannie  to  me, 
and  no  living  soul  could  persuade  me  that 
a  young  mither  would  set  a  puir  wee  body 
like  that  afloat,  wi'  naught  to  guide  nor  steer 
it  for  life  and  death,  save  the  tide  and  the 
winds  o'  heaven.  I  took  her  home  in  my 
arms  to  my  mither.  She  was  ever  a  good, 
homesome  body — God  bless  her — and  she 
loved  the  child  frae  the  first.  It  learned  to 
speak  like  us  after  a  bit,  and  it  would  clap 
its  hands  for  me  when  I  came  home  on  mar- 
366 


and  Other  People 

ket  days,  and  the  bright  eyes,  even  then, 
would  shine  the  brighter  for  the  bit  of  ribbon 
I  carried  back  to  snood  her  bonny  hair.  Oh, 
sir,  she  loved  all  that  was  brilliant  and  beau- 
tiful ;  'twas  her  nature  to  love  the  sunshine 
and  flowers,  and  the  gay  colors  and  the  fine 
things.  What  had  wee,  winsome  Jeannie 
to  do  wi'  dark  skies  and  barren  moorlands, 
wi'  clouds  and  ugly  clothes?  Naught, 
naught !  She  came  frae  the  South,  sir,  and 
she  yearned  after  her  happier,  bluer  heavens 
always — only  I  did  not  understand  it  exact- 
ly, then.''  Again  he  heaves  a  deep  and  pit- 
eous sigh,  and  passes  his  hand  across  his 
brow  ;  there  was  not  only  pathos,  but  tragedy 
in  the  man's  voice  and  movement. 

"  She  grew,  sir,  like  the  finest  lily,  and  her 
head  was  like  the  lily's  bell — now  leaning 
this  way,  now  that,  with  such  pretty,  witch- 
ing ways  as  would  woo  the  bees  from  gaudi- 
est flowers,  to  suck  the  sweetness  from  her 
soft  young  mouth.  Before  I  knew  it,  al- 
though I  was  watching  for  it  all  the  time, 
Jeannie  was  a  woman ;  the  burn's  bairn  was 
a  lassie  wi'  all  a  lassie's  airs  and  shyness,  I 
had  it  in  my  mind  for  months,  but  I  never 

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The  New  Yorkers 


dared  to  ask  her  to  be  mine,  in  a  dearer, 
nearer  sense  than  she  was.    My  mother's 
death  hastened  my  hps.    How  I  remem- 
ber the  day !  She  looked  up,  wi'  the  same 
clear  laughing  eyes  that  had  shone  into  mine 
fourteen  years  before,  wet  wi'  the  lapping  of 
the  waves  then ;  twa  Salter  drops  stood  'a- 
tween  their  smiles  that  morning.  '  Will  you 
take  me  to  the  South  ?  '  she  asked  of  me,  and 
I  promised  her  I  would ;  and  then,  very 
quietly,  she  laid  her  hand  in  mine.    I  could 
na'  even  press  it,  sir;  there  was  such  a  tu- 
mult in  my  veins  as  made  even  this  hand 
powerless  " — he  raised  his  powerful  right 
hand  as  he  spoke — beneath  the  light  touch 
of  hers.  In  six  months  we  were  married  " — 
he  pauses  abruptly — that,  sir,  is  one  of  the 
sacred  times  we  dream  over  with  shut  lips ; 
we've  no  language  coined  yet  to  convey  their 
meaning.    Jeannie  was  my  wife.  Hoping 
to  better  myself,  and  the  sooner  take  her  off 
for  the  bit  trip  to  the  South,  I  let  the  pasture 
lands  to  a  neighbor,  and  took  to  this  spirit- 
travelling;  there  was  more  money  in  it,  I 
thought,  but  somehow,  it  didna'  come  fast 
enough.    Every  journey  I  made,  I  brought 
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and  Other  People 


home  the  wee  woman  summat  pretty  and 
gay,  and  she  would  laugh  and  be  pleased  a 
bit,  and  then  after  awhile  she  would  creep 
into  my  arms  and  lay  her  head  upon  my 
breast,  and  say  to  me,  wi'  her  coaxing  fin- 
gers on  my  face,  *  Will  it  be  soon,  Sandy, 
that  you'll  be  taking  me  to  the  South  ?  It  is 
so  cold  here — so  cold  !  It  seems  to  me,  some- 
times as  if  I  could  remember  a  beautiful  land 
where  flowers  grew  always,  where  bright 
birds  sang  in  the  branches,  and  where  people 
danced  and  sang,  and  were  merry — not  like 
here — oh,  not  like  here ! '  And  the  puir 
bairn  shuddered  in  my  clasp,  as  she  glanced 
out  the  cottage  window  to  the  bare  moors 
and  the  dull  gray  sky."  Again  he  paused, 
as  though  lost  in  the  mazes  of  a  too  retentive 
memory. 

"  I  did  na'  prosper,  sir ;  that  is  the  sum  o' 
it  all.  It  was  my  fault — all  mine ;  he  who 
says  other  speaks  falsely."  His  tone  is  al- 
most fierce,  as  he  brings  down  his  clenched 
hand  upon  the  window-ledge,  with  a  force 
that  causes  the  glass  to  rattle.  "  I  got  up 
one  morning ;  I  had  slept  heavily,  having  but 
just  got  home  frae  a  long  and  tiresome  jour- 
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The  New  Yorkers 


ney — and  she  was  gone !  "  One  great  sob, 
almost  the  pitifullest  I  ever  heard,  seemed 
as  if  it  would  rend  him  body  and  soul ; 
then : 

"  I  knew  where  to  look,  sir ;  I  rushed 
straight  down  to  the  water's  edge,  and  my 
instincts  had  na'  misled  me.  The  bit  boat  I 
kept  there  for  her  pleasuring  was  slipped 
its  moorings ;  the  water  rippled  in  the  early 
glint  of  the  sunshine,  the  sheep  nibbled  close 
to  the  brink,  and  there  were  her  footprints 
in  the  soft,  wet  clay;  the  blue  ribbon  from 
her  head  lay  draggled  half  in  the  water,  half 
out.  I  caught  it  to  my  heart  with  a  wild 
cry ;  I  carry  it  there  to-day,  and  that  is  near 
fourteen  years  ago,  sir!  They  said  there 
were  other  footsteps  besides  my  Jeannie's — 
longer  and  broader  ones — they  said  that  a 
dark-haired,  foreign  man,  handsome  as 
Southern  men  are  sometimes,  had  been  oft 
at  the  cottage  when  I  was  off,  they  said  " — 
he  fairly  gnashes  his  strong  teeth  together, 
as  he  stops  short — "  but  they  lied.  The 
burn  flowed  toward  the  South — the  warm, 
sweet  South  she  loved  so  and  yearned  after 
— and  poor  lamb,  she  thought  its  luring 
370 


and  Other  People 

babble  could  float  her  down  in  safety  to 
the  land  where  the  birds  are  ever  singing. 
My  bairn,  my  puir  wee  Jeannie ;  Galla  water 
gave  you  to  me,  and  Galla  water  took  you 
away  from  me!  I  am  travelling  still,  sir; 
always  up  and  down,  and  I'm  always  looking 
out,  especially  on  dark  nights  like  this,  to 
see  her  floating  down  wi'  the  stream ;  and  al- 
ways, when  I  go  home,  I'm  in  haste  to  get 
to  the  burnside  o'  mornings,  so  sure  am  I 
that  the  tide  will  bring  her  back  to  me  some 
time,  some  way,  some  day.  I  hear  her 
laugh  in  every  wave  that  chases  its  brother ; 
I  knozv  she  could  na'  help  leaving  me;  she 
was  not  like  ither  folk — my  sweet,  wee,  win- 
some Jeannie !  " 

When  I  arrived  in  L  I  took  occasion 

to  inquire  about  the  "  spirit  traveller."  I 
learned  that  the  term  was  used  in  Scotland 
and  in  some  of  the  Northern  shires  of  Eng- 
land, to  designate  a  clerk  travelling  in  the 
interest  of  some  large,  or  small,  wine  mer- 
chant ;  and  that  this  particular  spirit  trav- 
eller, although  the  pay  he  received  was  very 
small,  and  tempting  offers  had  been  made  to 
him  by  other  houses,  steadily  refused  to  quit 
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the  track  he  had  gone  in  for  upward  of  six- 
teen years — a  stretch  of  country,  not  many 
miles  in  extent,  that  never  lost  sight  of  his 
beloved    Galla  water." 


372 


THE  LOST  YEAR 


THE  LOST  YEAR 


"  There  is  a  year  in  the  Poet's  life  which  re- 
mains wholly  unaccounted  for,  the  year  1828."— 
Life  of  Poe. 

I  WAS  in  Geneva,  sauntering  along  the 
Corraterie,  when  the  attraction  of  an  old 
book-shop  arrested  my  eager  eyes.  I  stood 
for  some  time  peering  into  musty  tomes  and 
turning  over  mildewed  leaves ;  I  was  going, 
when  a  little  volume  fell  to  the  ground  at 
my  feet ;  I  picked  it  up,  to  restore  it  to  the 
counter,  when  a  faint  perfume  like  the  pris- 
oned soul  of  some  forgotten  flower  assailed 
me  from  its  faded  silken  cover.  I  sat  down 
on  the  wooden  stool  and  opened  the  book. 
It  was  Baudelaire's  poems.  The  silken  case 
in  which  some  dainty  and  fanciful  hand  had 
secured  it  was  embroidered  with  the  initials 

E.  A.  P."  Anxious  to  see  the  original 
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binding,  I  slipped  off  the  silken  cover,  when 
from  its  shield  there  came  into  my  hands  a 
cluster  of  crumbling  hyacinths  pinned  to  a 
thick  packet  of  papers. 

The  flowers,  whose  aroma  still  bore  hint 
of  sweetness,  scattered  in  the  breeze,  but  the 
now  loosened  sheets  of  paper,  I  at  once  per- 
ceived, were  closely  written  over  in  an  ele- 
gant and  most  legible  hand. 

I  bought  the  book  for  a  couple  of  francs, 
went  quickly  back  to  my  hotel,  and,  sitting 
down  on  my  balcony,  I  did  not  stir  until  I 
had  devoured  the  last  one  of  those  niarvel- 
lously  fine  and  neat  pages. 

The  MS.  ran  thus : 
There  is  a  lost  year  in  my  life ;  I  wish 
it  to  remain  lost  forever,  yet  nevertheless  I 
risk  my  desire  somewhat  by  here  setting 
down  its  history;  the  force  of  its  mystery 
and  its  melody,  its  strange,  unutterable  pas- 
sion and  tragedy  are  such  as  compel  me  to 
record  them,  whether  I  will  or  no :  perchance 
when  once  I  behold  the  written  word  my  un- 
easy spirit  will  rest,  and  I  can  consign  these 
pages  to  the  flames.  The  year  was  1828. 
Exalted  and  imbued  with  the  ardor  of  youth 
376 


and  Other  People 

and  high  ideals,  I  embarked  from  New  York 
on  a  stormy  September  morning,  with  the 
avowed  purpose  of  going  to  Greece  and 
there  offering  my  strength  and  services  in 
aid  of  that  strugghng  and  unfortunate  coun- 
try. 

We  sailed  down  the  Bay,  through  the 
Narrows,  around  the  Hook,  in  a  cloud  of  em- 
purpling mist;  the  sun's  ghost  glimmered 
athwart  the  gloom,  and  the  plaint  of  the 
sobbing  and  untiring  sea  surged  all  about 
me.  No  more  the  ragged  shore  could  be 
seenvno  more  the  faint  odor  of  the  soil  as- 
sailed the  sense ;  all  sky,  ocean,  atmosphere, 
seemed  united  in  one  molten  pressure  of  dull 
and  mournful  gray.  The  ship  slid  on  as  on 
a  sea  of  glass,  hastened  by  a  breeze  that  hur- 
ried mystically  through  her  sails,  and  yet 
scarcely  ruffled  the  hair  upon  my  forehead. 
For  days  it  continued  thus,  one  unbroken 
impulse  through  a  nebulosity,  which  the  oc- 
casional phosphorescent  flashes  seen  afar, 
only  served  to  render  the  more  strange  and 
profound. 

"  At  the  close  of  the  tenth  day  I  sat  hud- 
dled up  on  deck,  my  eyes  seeking  to  pene- 
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trate  the  film ;  they  could  not,  but  suddenly, 
from  out  the  awful  space,  I  saw  a  black  head 
cleaving  the  murk  asunder;  I  heard  black 
wings  flapping  against  the  dusk  and  con- 
quering it ;  I  beheld  a  bird,  livid  in  its  swarth, 
alight  upon  the  ship's  topmost  mast,  and 
with  its  eyes  of  yellow  flecked  with  green,  it 
pierced  my  eyes  and  riveted  my  gaze  to  it. 
It  was  a  raven,  and  from  where  I  crouched 
I  could  perceive  that  it  opened  its  beak  slow- 
ly and  uttered  sounds  so  mournful,  so  mel- 
ancholy, as  made  my  heart-strings  stretch 
and  the  cold  drops  stand  out  on  my  face.  I 
prayed  it  to  go  away;  I  begged  it  to  leave 
me,  but  even  though  I  knelt  in  supplication 
the  ominous  bird  perched  there  upon  the 
mast-top,  and  with  its  solemn  and  damnable 
croak  would  seem  to  have  cast  a  spell  upon 
my  soul. 

"  I  called  the  captain  and  pointed  the  eyrie 
creature  out  to  him,  but  he  assured  me  he 
saw  nothing  there,  and  in  this  assertion  the 
officers,  passengers,  and  crew  stood  by  him 
to  a  man,  adding  their  laughter  to  his. 

"  But  on  the  eleventh,  the  twelfth,  and  all 
the  days  until  we  sighted  the  land  of  France, 

378 


and  Other  People 

the  bird  sat  yonder  in  his  monkish  state, 
sometimes  flapping  his  broad  wings,  but 
never  taking  flight,  and  always  moaning  out 
his  strange,  dissyllabled  miserere ;  ahvays 
striking  the  venomous  ghnt  of  his  parti- 
colored eyes  down  into  mine  with  the  preci- 
sion of  an  arrow — until,  one  day,  the  last  on 
board,  when  pleasant  pasture  lands  and 
flowery  meadows  greeted  us,  he  spread  his 
trim  and  ebon  sails  and  struck  out  skyward 
toward  the  South. 

"  After  I  went  ashore  I  was  taken  ill,  so 
mortally  ill  that,  had  it  not  been  for  the  ex- 
quisite kindness  of  total  strangers,  I  had 
perished.  Recovering  somewhat,  the  good 
priest,  whom  the  housefolk  had  quickly  sum- 
moned to  my  side,  urged  me  to  seek  a 
warmer  climate,  dissuading  me  utterly  from 
my  original  purpose  of  going  to  Greece  and 
entering  the  army — for  which  service  I  was 
now  indeed  wholly  unfit — and  recommend- 
ing to  me  an  asylum  at  once  healthful,  beau- 
tiful, peaceful,  and  retired.  This  was  the 
Convent  of  St.  Onofrio,  near  the  city  of 
Padua.  The  brothers,  he  said,  would  re- 
ceive me  gladly,  and  a  few  months  spent 
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among  them  would  put  me  once  more  in 
good  condition. 

"  Too  weak  to  dissent,  too  indolent  to 
care,  I  followed  the  priest's  advice,  and, 
journeying  into  Italy  by  slow  stages,  I  final- 
ly found  myself  installed  as  a  guest  beneath 
the  hospitable,  if  half-ruined  roof,  of  St. 
Onofrio. 

"  For  some  days  after  my  arrival  I  re- 
mained within  doors,  either  in  my  cell,  in  the 
refectory,  the  chapter-house,  or  the  chapel. 
It  was  sufficient  to  have  recovered  life  it- 
self; to  be  able,  once  more,  to  think  with 
avidity,  to  breathe  without  pain  ;  for  the  rest, 
I  was  well  content  to  let  it  go,  or  come,  as  it 
might. 

"  So  that,  thus  having  sailed  from  home  in 
September,  it  was  already  April  when  I  went 
out  into  the  convent  garden  and  walked 
about  under  the  shade  of  green  trees,  inhal- 
ing the  voluptuous  odor  of  hyacinths,  listen- 
ing to  the  music  of  the  silence ;  that  undis- 
covered source  of  some  of  the  heavenliest 
harmonies  the  ear  has  ever  heard. 

I  lay  at  rest — grant  that  it  was  the  es- 
sence of  physical  repose,  and  that  an  over- 
380 


and  Other  People 


taxed  spirit  too  gladly  lost  itself  in  the  bod- 
ily, and  for  once  forgot  its  struggle — in  the 
convent  garden ;  the  low-sweeping  branches 
of  some  fringing  shrubbery  swept  above  my 
head;  the  hyacinths  breathed  against  my 
tired  cheek ;  my  eyes  took  in  the  sad  beauty 
of  a  ruined  arch  overhung  with  vines, 
through  which  there  peeped  the  bluest  sky, 
and  just  above  the  arch  was  built  a  stone 
chamber,  whose  one  narrow  window  leaned 
a  little,  and  was  walled  up,  shutting  out  for- 
ever the  light,  shutting  in  some  monkish 
mystery  doubtless,  of  perchance  the  middle 
ages.  I  heard  the  brothers  chanting  litanies 
at  their  work  in  the  fields ;  humanity  was 
near,  but  not  in  touch ;  my  eyelids  closed,  the 
hyacinths  crushed  against  my  mouth,  when  I 
heard  again,  as  before,  the  dreary,  dolorous 
flapping  of  a  bird's  nearing  wings.  I  sprang 
to  my  feet.  I  beheld  once  more  the  raven 
clinging  to  the  branch  above  my  head ;  felt 
once  again  the  awful  rivet  of  his  gaze  on 
mine;  heard  now,  as  at  first,  the  excruciat- 
ing, corroding  cry  from  his  bitter  throat. 

"  He  swayed  upon  his  perch  and  seemed 
to  mock  me  with  his  reiterated  moan.  I 


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leaned  against  the  tree-bole,  palpitating  with 
an  unexplainable  expectancy,  and  as  I  leaned 
and  waited,  the  monkish  litanies  lulled,  and 
in  all  the  place  there  sounded  nothing  save 
the  crackle  of  the  raven's  claws,  for  he 
hopped  from  the  branch,  and  statelily  passed 
up  the  gravelled  path  that  leads  to  the  ruined 
arch.  I  followed  him,  I  cannot  say  against 
my  will,  but  unreflecting,  unquestioning,  un- 
til, spreading  his  wings  again,  he  flew  to  the 
top  of  the  arch  amid  the  tangle  of  the  vines, 
and  croaked  and  croaked  again. 

"  I  tried  to  follow  him  even  there,  but  my 
strength  was  not  enough ;  besides,  the  sound 
of  music,  ravishing,  unearthly  sweet  and  lur- 
ing, came  creeping  over  to  me  then  and  there 
from  the  organ  in  the  chapel.  It  was  such 
melody  as  those  forever  lost,  may  dream  of 
as  daily  bread  of  all  the  heavenly  host. 

"  The  bird,  silenced  as  myself,  turned 
aside  his  witch-like  head  and  listened,  too, 
and  then  he  laughed  and  whistled,  and  spoke 
out  as  if  he  had  been  human  being  like  my- 
self— and  '  Nevermore  '  was  all  the  word  he 
uttered,  many  times,  over  and  over  again, 
while  I,  cursing  him  and  his  ill-omened 
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and  Other  People 

tongue,  fell  at  the  arch's  base,  and  lay  faint- 
ing till  the  brothers  came  at  night  to  find  me. 

"  I  pointed  to  the  bird,  but  he  had  flown ; 
I  told  them  of  the  music  of  despair;  they 
nodded  tritely  as  they  led  me  into  the  clois- 
ters, and  one,  more  spokesman  than  the  rest, 
rehearsed  to  me  the  Legend  of  St.  Onofrio's. 
— How,  centuries  ago,  a  nun  more  beautiful 
than  pen  or  pencil  paint,  and  named  Lenore, 
had  lost  her  heart  to  one  of  St.  Onofrio's 
brethren  ;  from  far  off  in  her  convent  she  had 
travelled  at  much  peril,  to  venture  here  and 
see  him ;  how  she  had  announced  her  com- 
ing to  him,  in  the  dim  hours  of  the  night, 
when  all  the  household  slept,  by  such  playing 
on  the  organ  as  wrested  him  from  his  cot 
and  drew  him  to  her  side.  That  morning 
came,  and  with  it  all  the  story  of  her  love ; 
of  how  the  Abbot,  being  a  stern  and  godly 
man,  had  forthwith  condemned  the  delin- 
quent monk  to  a  solitary  cell  for  life,  and 
had  ordered  the  beautiful  Lenore  to  be  stood 
upright  in  the  stone  chamber  over  the  arch, 
and  to  be  walled  up  therein,  alive.  That 
fanciful  guests  who  slept  at  the  convent  had 
often  affirmed  that  they  heard  the  lost  Le- 
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nore  playing  on  the  chapel  organ  when  the 
nights  were  long  in  summer,  and  that  the 
legend  ran,  that  one  day  the  soul  that  was 
the  mate  of  that  nun's  soul,  would  travel  this 
way,  and  then  'twould  ill-betide  the  traveller. 

Even  as  the  Prior  ceased  speaking  I 
heard  the  seductive  melody  sweep  in  at  the 
open  window  of  my  room,  but  they  all  said 
that  they  heard  nothing,  and  so  I  let  them  go 
in  peace. 

Night  after  night  I  could  not  sleep  for 
listening  to  that  marvellous  music.  Day 
after  day  did  the  raven,  now  my  accursed 
familiar,  swinging  upon  the  branch  above 
my  head,  lead  me  with  his  mincing,  mocking 
footsteps  yonder  to  the  ruined  arch,  and, 
perching  there  above  the  walled-up  window, 
whisper  sullenly  in  the  sunshine,  '  Never- 
more ; '  or,  if  it  stormed,  then  louder  charmed 
the  organ  in  the  chapel,  and  fiercelier 
shrieked  the  imp-bird  in  my  ear. 

"  As  now,  a  twilight  in  July,  when  all  day 
long  the  thunderous  air  had  vibrated  with 
pulsing  heat ;  when  the  vault  above  seemed 
stooping,  steeped  in  languorous  snares,  to 
crush  the  heart-beats  of  the  denizens  of 
384 


and  Other  People 


earth,  and  frequent  lightnings  flashed  across 
the  hush,  I  sat  upon  the  garden  bench,  lulled 
in  the  lap  of  unemotional  calm,  the  bird 
swayed  near  me :  anon  the  music,  softly 
swelling,  swept  the  very  inmost  recess  of  my 
soul,  and  seemed  to  call  my  spirit  out  to  join 
with  it. 

The  hyacinths,  all  crushed  beneath  my 
feet,  incensed  the  air  with  fragrance.  The 
raven,  flapping  from  his  bough,  stepped  up 
the  path ;  I  followed,  staggering,  as  the  mel- 
ody from  the  chapel  seemed  to  whip  my 
tardy  spirit  to  a  fever  heat  of  hurry.  The 
bird  hopped  on,  climbed  up  the  crumbling 
arch,  and,  lighting  on  the  lintel  of  the  walled- 
up  window,  began  to  peck,  with  his  strong 
and  vicious  beak,  at  the  mason-work  be- 
tween the  stones.  And  the  swooning  clouds 
swung  closer  to  the  parched  and  thirsty 
earth ;  the  breath  of  the  hyacinths  smelled 
deadly  sweet ;  the  lure  of  the  music  swayed 
stronger,  as  I,  too,  with  one  awful  cry, 
sprang  up  the  arch,  slipping,  crawling,  yet 
at  last  gaining  the  top.  With  my  tense  fin- 
gers I  tore  at  the  cement  and  stone ;  with  all 
my  force  I  braced  myself,  and  clawed  and 
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clutched  the  keystone  and  the  lintel,  until  a 
great  flash  came  out  of  the  darkling  east ;  the 
raven  shrieked  his  '  Nevermore,'  the  breth- 
ren, rushing  from  the  fields ;  and,  down, 
with  a  crash  that  matched  the  bolts  of  Jove, 
came  hurtling,  as  I  leaped  aside,  the  cruel 
stones  that  had  sealed  up  forever  the  young 
life  of  the  lost  Lenore. 

She  stood  there  in  the  revealed  niche, 
a  being  beautiful  beyond  compare,  and  all 
my  inarticulate  soul  went  out  to  her,  enrapt- 
ured, as  the  monks  fled,  crying,  from  the 
spot  into  the  chapel,  and  as  the  bird  flew 
flapping  after  them. 

Her  eyes,  so  soft  as  Love's  eyes,  looked 
down  into  mine;  her  lips,  so  red  as  pome- 
granate blossoms,  smiled  at  me ;  her  bosom, 
white  as  moonlight,  rose  and  fell ;  she  raised 
her  arms,  and  then,  dissolving  like  the  dew 
at  dawn,  the  wondrous  vision  crumbled  into 
dust — down — down — lessening  to  a  mere 
small  handful  that  I  gathered  in  my  palms 
and  pressed  against  my  lips,  as  I,  too,  dashed 
across  the  court  and  into  the  chapel  among 
the  brethren. 

"  As  I  entered,  again  the  music  sounded 
386 


and  Other  People 

out,  joyfuller  than  of  old,  but  mystically 
sweet  and  solemn  with  its  monotone  of  pain. 

The  raven  was  hopping  statelywise 
straight  up  the  altar  steps  ;  the  Prior  and  the 
monks,  aghast,  stood  staring  at  the  organ, 
whereat  no  player  sat ;  the  dust  within  the 
hollow  of  my  hands  burned  into  my  flesh ; 
with  glaring  orbs  I  watched  the  wretched, 
impious  bird  as  it  paced  calmly  on,  whisper- 
ing hoarsely  as  it  went,  *  Nevermore,' 
*  Nevermore.' 

"  The  Abbot,  roused  from  his  trance-like 
inaction,  now  ran  up  the  aisle,  his  crozier  in 
his  grasp  uplifted,  and,  reaching  the  raven, 
struck  it  a  blow  as  rang  up  to  the  rafters. 
And  once  again  the  black  wings  flapped  and 
fluttered,  once  again  the  parti-colored  eyes 
met  mine,  then,  blinded  with  the  holy  lamp, 
the  devilish  bird  dashed  itself  against  the 
glass  and  fell,  all  streaked  across  his  suit  of 
black  with  blood,  dead  at  the  pulpit  stairs. 

"  And  the  witch-like  music  stilled,  sloping 
off  into  the  corner  of  the  chapel,  as  the  music 
of  a  dream,  weird,  wondrous,  at  an  end. 

And  the  pinch  of  dust  within  my  palm 
melted  away  into  a  vapor  thinner  than  the 

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air  and  rosy  as  the  morn,  while  all  that  lin- 
gered was  the  burn  and  blister  in  my  flesh ; 
all  that  loitered  was  the  echo  of  the  raven's 
'  Nevermore ; '  all  the  refluent  memory  that 
remains  is  of  the  once-seen  lost  Lenore,  and 
the  year  I  count  all  my  other  years  without." 


388 


THE 

PRISONER  OF  THE  STEEN 


THE 

PRISONER  OF  THE  STEEN 

I  WAS  in  Antwerp,  sight-seeing,  in  lazy, 
dilettante  fashion.  I  was  stopping  at  the 
Hotel  de  la  Paix,  in  the  Marche  anx  Sou- 
liers  and  the  Rue  des  Menuisiers,  and  saun- 
tered out  one  morning  down  the  Place  de 
Mier.  I  stopped  as  I  passed  the  Cathedral, 
for  just  then  Carolus  and  all  his  fifty-nine 
lesser  brethren,  rang  out  a  joyous  jubilee  of 
bell  melody  from  one  end  of  the  city  to  the 
other. 

Then  I  walked  on  in  the  glory  of  the  sun- 
shine, and  presently  out  of  it  into  that  region 
of  narrow  gassen,  where  the  tall  old  houses 
lean,  nodding,  gossip-wise,  toward  each 
other,  and  where  at  every  corner  there  is 
sure  to  be  a  Madonna  and  Child  perched 
aloft  in  a  tawdry  little  shrine,  decked  out 
with  paper  roses,  and  perfumed  by  the  sweet 
flavor  of  many  voiceless  prayers. 

Hither  and  yon  my  idling  footsteps  wan- 
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dered,  until  I  came  to  the  Street  of  the 
Steen,  and  presently  to  the  Steen  itself. 

The  Steen,  so  far  as  I  could  discover,  was 
once  the  palace  of  some  great  noble,  and 
surely  dates  back  to  the  tenth  century,  if  not 
farther.  Later  it  became  one  of  the  prisons 
of  the  Inquisition,  and  now  it  is  a  museum. 
Considering  its  antiquity,  its  associations, 
and  its  situation,  the  Steen  is  one  of  the  most 
interesting  buildings  in  Flanders. 

The  Scheldt  River  flows  noiselessly  and 
smoothly  beneath  a  part  of  the  stronghold, 
and  on  the  water  side  there  is  a  deep,  silent, 
closed  portico  where  a  boat  might  be 
moored,  and  no  one  the  wiser  save  the  boat- 
man and  his  passengers. 

I  stepped  within  the  entrance  court.  It 
is  surrounded  and  guarded  on  all  sides  by 
the  grim  stone  walls  that  tower  up  to  touch 
the  blue,  with  their  sharp,  peaked  roofs,  and 
hooding  windows,  no  wider  than  my  hand, 
yet  barred  and  spiked  with  iron. 

The  court  is  stone-paved,  of  course^  and 
strewn  about  with  all  manner  of  things  fit 
to  drive  the  artist  frantic ;  old  carved 
wooden  figures,  warriors,  Marys,  a  Hercu- 
392 


and  Other  People 


les,  carved  chests,  pieces  of  armor,  empty 
helmets — visors  up — grinning-  at  one  an- 
other ;  and  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  in  a  narrow 
slip  of  sunshine,  sat  a  young  painter  at  work, 
while  a  frolicsome  kitten  scampered  away 
after  an  inconsequent  but  elusive  fly. 

There  are  any  quantity  of  objects  of  in- 
terest in  the  rooms  devoted  to  the  museum 
collection,  but  with  these,  that  morning,  I 
had  nothing  in  common.  Having  escaped 
from  the  thraldom  of  a  chaperon,  and  evad- 
ed the  guardianship  of  anyone,  I  was  bent 
upon  that  which  all  my  people  told  me  a  per- 
son with  nerves  "  must  not  even  dream  of 
attempting.  I  was  going  through  the  prison 
of  the  Inquisition,  which  is  situated  in  the 
dungeons  of  the  Steen. 

Others  there  were,  a  half-dozen,  unlike 
myself, cheery,  hearty  people  without  nerves, 
and  merely  anxious  to  do  something,  so  as  to 
have  material  for  conversation. 

We  were  met  by  a  precise  and  particular 
dame,  whose  withered  visage  relaxed  not 
beneath  the  shade  of  her  ruffled  cap-border. 
She  showed  us  into  a  small  office  on  the 
right,  where,  on  a  table,  were  set  out  a  dozen 
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or  more  brass  candlesticks  and  a  tray  of 
matches.  A  few  words  in  patois  sufficed  to 
summon  the  old  dame's  son,  a  strapping 
young  fellow,  who  took  the  big  bunch  of 
rusty  keys  from  its  peg  on  the  wall,  politely 
requested  the  six  sight-seers  to  light  their 
candles,  and,  touching  the  match  to  his  own 
long  torch,  motioned  us  to  follow  him. 

As  we  stepped  along  the  gloomy  passage 
he  discoursed  volubly.  Few  visitors  came 
to  the  Steen,  he  informed  us ;  there  had  been 
none  before,  this  week ;  it  was  a  spot  full  of 
interest,  worthy  the  attention  of  all  ladies 
and  gentlemen  of  wealth  and  condition. 

At  this  juncture,  the  end  of  the  passage 
reached,  we  came  to  a  stout  oaken  door, 
hewn  rough,  and  knoj^bed  with  nails.  The 
guide  unlocked  it,  we  crossed  the  threshold 
and  he  followed,  swinging  to  the  lumbering 
portal  behind  him  and  locking  it  carefully 
from  the  inside.  Thus  shut  out  from  even  a 
glint  of  natural  light,  we  stood  at  the  head  of 
as  grewsome  a  flight  of  stairs  as  can  well  be 
imagined. 

The  flare  of  the  torch  and  the  candles 
shone  fitfully  as  we  went  down  the  steep, 
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and  Other  People 

slimy,  stone  steps,  our  feet  fitting  in  the 
grooves  worn  there  by  long  centuries  full  of 
plodders  mournfuller  than  we. 

I  was  last,  and  the  guide's  voice  sounded 
back  eerily  to  me  as  I  went. 

Messieurs  and  Mesdames,  you  now  de- 
scend the  staircase  of  the  condemned ;  you 
now  reach  the  bottom;  do  not  fear,  this 
round  stone  with  its  ring  of  iron  is  the  oubli- 
ette; it  is  firmly  secured  at  present;  it  was 
not  always  so;  centuries  ago,  he  who  was 
bidden  to  walk  down  this  stair  found  death 
at  the  end ;  with  his  last  step  he  fell  into  the 
Scheldt  and  was  not  heard  about  any  more, 
ever." 

Ay,  down  unwittingly,  into  the  yawning 
arms  of  the  river  they  must  have  plunged ; 
the  river  that  sidles  and  gurgles — I  can  hear 
it  now — against  the  stone  walls,  waiting  for 
prey  of  tortured  human  bodies  to  be  carried 
out  to  sea. 

"  The  last  step !  "  cried  out  the  guide's 
harsh  voice. 

I  put  out  my  hand  and  clutched  at  the 
dripping  wall,  damp,  it  seemed  to  me,  with 
the  dews  of  death.  My  candle  flickered.  I 
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shuddered,  and  in  a  moment  more,  the 
oubliette  passed,  I  followed  the  others  as 
they  went. 

A  brief  glance  at  the  modus  operandi  of 
practical  martyrdom  may  perhaps  serve  to 
acquit  our  own  day  and  fate  of  any  such  in- 
tention toward  us. 

"  Here  is  the  cell,"  sung  out  the  young 
Fleming,  "  where  murder  by  suffocation  was 
perpetrated." 

The  rude  fireplace  remains  intact,  the 
stone  charred  and  bitten  by  the  flames  that 
stole  away  human  life  as  they  burned, 
whose  tongues  flared  as  high  up  the  choked 
chimneys  as  they  could,  struggling  to  gain 
light  and  so  proclaim  to  men  the  infernal 
fires  that  were  fed  so  often  in  the  dungeons 
of  the  Steen,  in  the  days  of  Philip  of  Spain. 

"  Messieurs  and  Mesdames,  this  is  the 
apartment  where  the  hangings  took  place." 

The  rings  and  chains,  rusty  with  saints' 
tears,  hang  on  the  walls  still. 

'*  Messieurs  and  Mesdames,  behold  here 
the  place  of  the  deaths  by  slow  drowning !  " 

The  pump  which  the  victim  was  allowed 
to  use  until  exhausted,  stands  in  its  foul  cor- 
396 


and  Other  People 


ner  to-day,  frightful  witness  of  man's  in- 
humanity to  man ;  and  there  are  the  pipes  by 
which  the  sullen  Scheldt  waters  were  sucked 
in  to  do  their  work. 

"  Messieurs  and  Mesdames,  I  show  to  you 
here  the  apartment  of  the  confession ;  in  this 
iron  hole  the  prisoner  spoke,  while — follow 
me  if  you  please  " — The  guide  waved  his 
torch  aloft  and  all  the  others  made  after  him 
through  the  slit  of  a  doorway.  I  did  not ;  I 
stood  still,  hearing  his  voice,  quick  and  rasp- 
ing, as  he  continued  his  tale. 

— While  here  the  priest  listened  unseen, 
to  the  confession,  and  conferred  upon  the 
repentant  the  absolution  which  he  desired." 

I  did  not  know  then,  and  have  no  idea 
now,  why  I  stood  there,  the  great  beads 
starting  on  my  forehead  as  I  realized  the 
awful  woe  and  deviltry  of  those  days  so 
happily  dead. 

I  leaned  close  to  the  confessional  tube ;  I 
heard  again  the  voice  of  the  young  Fleming 
— it  seemed  to  me  a  great  way  off — and  with 
a  start  I  rushed  through  the  arch  to  follow 
my  companions. 

As  I  did  so  the  draught  of  my  precipitate 
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movement  put  out  my  candle,  and  I  stood 
alone  in  the  total  darkness. 

I  called,  not  loudly,  for  the  demon  of  fear 
choked  my  utterance  and  made  of  me  a  whis- 
perer. Only  the  faint  echo  of  my  own 
breath  made  me  a  mocking  answer. 

I  stared  into  the  blackness,  for  not  the 
dimmest  kind  of  light  came  to  my  straining 
eyes. 

I  put  out  my  hands  and  caught  blindly  at 
the  slimy  walls.  I  then  crept  along  with 
cautious,  terrified  tread,  thinking  I  knew 
not  where  an  open  oubliette  might  yawn 
beneath  my  feet. 

The  tears  of  anguish  started  to  my  eyes 
as  my  calls  stuck  in  my  throat.  Once  more 
I  dared  to  take  a  few  steps,  as  my  arms 
seemed  to  catch  at  something  like  the  rough- 
ness of  a  supporting  pillar.  I  clung  to  it, 
swinging  myself  around  a  corner  apparently, 
and  then,  at  last,  light — soft,  mellow,  beauti- 
ful light — greeted  my  famished  sight. 

I  opened  my  lips  to  speak,  to  call^  but  on 
the  instant  even  I  remained  silent  and  stood 
still. 

Yonder,  at  the  end  of  the  narrow  corri- 
398 


and  Other  People 


dor  where  I  stood,  there  opened  out  a  wide, 
square  space.  It  was  railed  about  with  iron 
bars  and  chains  to  the  ceiling's  height. 
Within  this  space  a  carpet  was  spread  upon 
the  stone  floor,  and  there  were  a  bed,  chairs, 
and  a  table  on  which  a  lamp  burned.  Books 
and  papers  were  littered  about,  also  large 
maps.  A  man  in  a  shooting-jacket  of  rusty 
brown  velvet  sat  by  the  table,  leaning  over  it. 

His  hands  were  large,  firm,  white,  well- 
shaped. 

His  face  was  hidden  in  a  mask  which  com- 
pletely defied  observation  of  what  was  be- 
hind it. 

I  stood  still  in  the  shadow,  unseen.  I  dared 
not  move.  Once  in  a  place  where  I  could 
see,  my  calmness  returned  to  me,  and  I  felt 
sure  that  the  Fleming  would  return  to  fetch 
me,  or,  at  worst,  that  my  party,  noticing  my 
absence,  would  be  hunting  me  up. 

Some  undefined  intuition  kept  me  silent. 
In  another  moment,  as  I  glanced  down  at 
my  watch  to  see  the  hour — it  pointed  noon — 
I  heard  a  clanking  footstep,  and  started  joy- 
fully forward  to  greet  the  deliverer  I  be- 
lieved to  be  at  hand. 

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Not  so.  I  caught  the  gleam  of  a  scabbard ; 
I  heard  the  cHck  of  higher  heels  than  the 
Fleming's ;  I  heard,  too,  the  rattle  of  chains, 
and  again  I  drew  back  in  my  corner  and 
stood  still. 

I  felt  myself  in  the  unbidden  presence  of 
some  one  of  Fate's  mysteries,  and  can  can- 
didly say  that  I  had  no  fear. 

As  I  withdrew,  a  soldier,  bearing  a  trayful 
of  food,  appeared.  He  was  followed  by  an- 
other, evidently  a  subaltern,  with  a  lantern 
and  a  drawn  sword. 

They  approached  the  iron  fencing.  The 
figure  inside  remained  motionless.  Not 
until  the  second  soldier  thrust  his  keys  into 
the  double  locks  and  pushed  open  the  gate, 
admitting  his  superior  and  himself,  did  the 
prisoner  stir,  and  then  it  was  merely  to  re- 
turn, with  a  movement  of  unusual  grace, 
the  salutes  of  the  two  men. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken. 

The  tray  of  food  was  placed  on  the  table, 
and  the  guard  took  a  minute  survey  of  every- 
thing, however  trivial,  in  the  enclosure, 
while  the  subaltern  stood  on  guard  at  the 
gate. 

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and  Other  People 


The  superior  crossed  to  the  prisoner,  ap- 
parently satisfied  that  nothing  untoward  had 
occurred  since  his  last  visit,  took  a  small  key 
from  his  chain,  placed  it  in  the  lock  of  the 
mask,  turned  it  with  a  snap,  and  lifted  the 
screen  from  the  face  it  had  shadowed. 

It  was  the  face  of  Louis  Napoleon,  third 
Emperor  of  France ! 

My  eyes  dilated ;  my  heart  stood  still. 
The  Emperor  had  died,  been  buried  in  Chis- 
elhurst,  and  turned  to  dust  long  since. 

Was  I  in  a  trance  ? 

No ;  the  soldiers  saluted  again,  he  return- 
ing the  compliment,  with  the  same  grace; 
they  shut  the  gate,  locked  it,  marched  away, 
and  left  me  standing  there. 

I  felt  myself,  awestruck  and  amazed  as  I 
was,  in  the  indisputable  presence  of  some 
tragic  and  mysterious  fate;  and  my  own 
gruesome  position  faded  into  insignificance 
beside  the  curious  history  that  so  unfolded 
itself  to  my  vision. 

Obeying  an  impulse  which  I  stopped  nei- 
ther to  combat  nor  question,  as  the  foot- 
steps of  the  soldiers  died  off  in  the  distance, 
I  emerged  from. my  corner  and  came  out  into 
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the  circle  of  mellow  radiance  emanating 
from  the  prisoner's  lamp. 

The  frou-frou  of  my  garments  was  audi- 
ble enough  in  that  forlorn  and  torturing  si- 
lence. 

He  looked  up  startled,  rose,  and  with  part- 
ed lips  and  eyes  redeemed  wholly  from  cold- 
ness by  the  quick  fire  that  shone  in  their  lan- 
guid depths,  advanced  close  to  the  bars  and 
bowed  profoundly. 

I  beheld  this  man  with  only  the  more  won- 
der as  he  spoke,  for,  notwithstanding  the 
waxen,  prison-born  pallor  of  his  face,  the 
white  hairs  on  his  temples,  and  the  attenua- 
tion of  his  figure,  no  closer  image  of  one 
human  being  ever  existed  than  was  this  of 
Louis  Napoleon. 

Is  it  an  angel  ?  "  he  asks,  in  a  soft,  low 
tone,  in  French,  of  course. 

I  hurriedly  make  answer  that  I  am  merely 
an  American  girl  lost  for  the  moment  in  the 
Steen  dungeons.  I  add  exactly  what  it  has 
been  my  most  ardent  wish  to  say  to  this  man 
since  the  first  moment  I  beheld  him : 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ? 

"  Much — everything — if  you  will.  First, 
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and  Other  People 


may  I  beg  to  know  where  I  am,  in  what 
country,  what  city  ?  I  know  nothing  of  my 
whereabouts.  I  was  brought  here  by  night, 
I  do  not  know  how  long  since,  with  this  " — 
he  indicates  the  mask — "  on  my  face,  and 
since  the  month  after  Sedan,  where  I  fought 
and  was  wounded,  I  am  in  complete  ignor- 
ance of  everything,  everybody,  the  world,  all 
it  contains !  " 

I  hastily  tell  him  what  he  wishes  to  know. 
I  add  the  date  of  the  year  and  month. 

''And  the  Emperor?"  he  asks,  with  a 
quick  glance ;  France  ?  the  Prince  Impe- 
rial?" 

The  Emperor,"  I  answer, ''  died  at  Chis- 
elhurst.  The  Prince  Imperial  is  dead  also. 
France  is  a  Republic.  Neither  Bourbon  nor 
Buonaparte  rules  there  now." 

He  seems  startled,  passes  his  hand  across 
his  forehead,  and  then  with  a  stealthy  look 
around  into  the  gloom,  he  crosses  to  the 
table,  whose  thick  legs  are  sunk  in  wooden 
sockets;  he  lifts  one  up  and  from  beneath 
the  large  claw  foot  he  draws  forth  some  bits 
of  folded  paper. 

"  Madame,"  the  prisoner  says,  "  I  do  not 
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understand  why  you  are  willing  to  risk 
something  in  behalf  of  a  man  as  miserable 
as  the  one  you  behold.  It  is  enough  for  me 
to  accept  the  bounty  of  God  through  you, 
His  messenger.  I  am  the  eldest  son  of  Na- 
poleon III.,  Emperor  of  the  French.  This 
paper  will  tell  you  more,  if  you  will  ex- 
amine it  and  this  letter."  Through  the 
bars  he  hands  the  papers  to  me.  I  thrust 
them  hastily  into  the  breast-pocket  of  my 
jacket. 

Madame,  I  shall  be  forever  your  debtor 
if  you  can  convey  this  letter  to  Marshal  Mc- 
Mahon — if  he  is  not  dead  also?"  he  adds, 
with  a  sudden  apprehension. 

''Marshal  McMahon  is  alive,"  I  reply, 
"  and  without  fail  I  will  mail  this  letter  to 
him  as  soon  as  I  leave  the  Steen." 

"  I  wrote  it,"  he  continues,  "  it  must  be 
years  since,  that  and  the  other,  to  have  them 
in  readiness,  should  fortune  ever  grant  me 
the  chance  of  entrusting  them  to  any  human 
being  willing  to  listen  to  me." 

"  Not  only  willing,  but  happy,  to  aid  you. 
Monsieur,"  I  make  answer,  as  through  my 
brain  there  rushes  the  phantasm  of  the  hor- 
404 


and  Other  People 

ror  of  the  years  this  man  has  Hved  since  he 
last  saw  the  sunshine. 

And  then,  afar,  echoing  through  the 
wretched  place,  I  hear  the  young  Fleming's 
shrill  voice. 

The  prisoner  starts  back. 

"  Do  not  let  them  find  you  here,"  he  whis- 
pers in  sudden  affright,  and  yet  something 
of  imperial  courtesy  preventing  him,  as  he 
bows  low  before  me,  from  a  dismissal,  even 
in  this  crisis. 

I  put  out  my  hand  through  the  bars — for 
one  instant  it  lies  in  both  of  his.  The  touch 
has  in  it  the  chill  of  a  charnel-house. 

"  You  have  my  word,"  I  murmur,  for 
secrecy,  silence,  and  all  the  help  I  can  give 
you." 

He  falls  on  his  knees,  and  with  the  sound 
of  his  "  God  bless  you  !  "  in  my  ears  I  shrink 
back  into  the  darksome  passage-way.  I 
crawl  and  shiver  along  its  damp,  mouldy 
sides  until  I  catch  the  faint  gleam  of  light, 
hear  the  shouts  of  the  guide  and  his  mother 
and  the  rest  of  his  family,  and  presently  I  am 
up  on  earth  once  more,  quit  of  the  prison  of 
the  Inquisition. 

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The  young  Fleming  regards  me  with  curi- 
osity as  I  somewhat  incoherently  describe 
the  horror  of  my  late  situation ;  a  couple  of 
soldiers  leaning  near  at  hand  in  the  court- 
yard laugh  between  themselves,  little  dream- 
ing how  recently  I  have  seen  them,  as  they 
watch  me  driven  off  in  the  cab  back  to  the 
Hotel  de  la  Paix. 

Were  it  not  for  the  papers  in  my  pocket  I 
should  have  said  that  I  had  fallen  asleep  and 
dreamed  dreams  in  the  Steen  ;  but  there  they 
were,  the  folded,  creased,  yellow  bits. 

The  letter  addressed  to  Marshal  Mc- 
Mahon  I  did  not,  of  course,  unfold,  but  the 
other  sheets  (which  the  prisoner  had  re- 
quested me  to  read  before  sending  to  their 
destination)  I  took  from  the  dingy  envelope, 
and  with  illimitable  interest  and  deference, 
spread  out  before  me  as  soon  as  I  reached 
home. 

I  read  as  follows: 

"  I  am  the  only  child  of  Louis  Napoleon 
Buonaparte  and  an  American  lady,  whose 
name  and  parentage  my  most  strenuous  en- 
deavors, even  pleadings  and  prayers,  failed 
to  wring  from  her  in  the  years  of  my  boy- 
406 


and  Other  People 

hood.  Suffice  it,  she  said,  for  me  to  know 
that  she  had  been  married  secretly  to  my 
father  in  the  city  of  New  York,  in  America, 
on  the  14th  of  May,  1837,  by  a  priest  of  the 
CathoHc  Church;  that  immediately  prior  to 
this  ceremony  she,  having  been  born  a  Prot- 
estant, had  abjured  that  faith  and  been  re- 
ceived into  the  religion  which  my  father  pro- 
fessed. Not  even  the  sworn  intimates  of 
Louis  Napoleon,  such  as  Wyckoff,  at  whose 
house  he  was  a  guest,  dreamed  of  this  ro- 
mance. When  he  quitted  America  my 
mother  left  in  the  same  vessel,  and  all  efforts 
of  her  family  and  friends  to  even  trace  her 
whereabouts  were  unavailing.  Pledged  to 
the  man  she  worshipped,  for  whom  she  re- 
nounced all  things  and  people,  she  never  in 
my  presence  regretted  her  election. 

"  I  was  born  in  London  on  the  loth  of 
March,  1838,  and  in  1846,  my  mother,  al- 
ways known  as  Madame  St.  Leon,  removed 
to  Paris.  My  father,  immediately  after  the 
coup  d'etat,  visited  us  frequently  in  our 
apartment  in  the  Rue  Bayard,  near  the  Cours 
de  la  Reine.  I  can  recall  him  perfectly  when 
he  would  caress  me  as  a  child  of  ten,  and 
407 


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bring  me  bonbons  and  toy  soldiers.  Then 
for  years  I  saw  nothing  of  him,  and  pres- 
ently I  was  placed  at  the  school  of  St.  Cyr, 
especially  under  the  patronage  of  Marshal 
McAIahon.  My  mother,  always  well  sup- 
plied with  money,  yet  was  ever  sad,  mourn- 
ful ;  and  at  last,  becoming  alarmingly  ill,  I 
was  hastily  sent  for,  to  return  and  find  her 
at  the  point  of  death  with  the  two  names  on 
her  lips  of  Louis  and  Marshal  McMahon. 

The  Marshal  came,  and  in  his  presence, 
with  his  concurrence,  assent,  and  endorse- 
ment, the  story  of  my  parentage  was  told  to 
me.  To  him  my  mother  entrusted  her  pri- 
vate papers,  and  with  her  last  breath  she  ex- 
horted me  thus :  *  Louis,  my  son,  you  are 
the  lawful  son  of  the  Emperor  of  France; 
none  other  is  lawful ;  my  marriage  to  your 
father  was  valid  and  never  annulled.  Now 
that  you  are  nearing  man's  estate,  now  that 
I  have  been  for  years  cast  aside  for  another, 
now  that  the  boy  of  the  Tuileries  may  usurp 
your  place,  I  charge  you  by  all  you  hold  dear 
or  sacred  to  right  my  name.* 

"  My  mother  died  and  was  interred  at 
Montmartre  very  quietly,   Marshal  Mc- 
408 


and  Other  People 

Mahon  taking  charge  of  everything.  I  re- 
turned to  St.  Cyr  and  profited  entirely  by  the 
counsels  which  the  great  soldier  bestowed 
upon  me.  His  instructions  were,  watch, 
wait,  be  silent,  and  observe ! 

"  I  obeyed  him  to  the  letter,  and  no  sylla- 
ble of  my  history  ever  escaped  my  lips. 
Upon  my  graduation,  I  received  a  commis- 
sion in  the  army.  I  served  with  valor,  yet 
obtaining  no  distinction,  until  at  last,  on  the 
field  of  Sedan  I  received  a  ball  in  the  left 
shoulder,  which  reached  me  before  it  should 
have  struck  the  son  of  Eugenie.  Such  is  the 
sarcasm  of  destiny.  Prior  to  this,  it  is  quite 
a  fact  that  my  extraordinary  resemblance  to 
the  Emperor  was  not  infrequently  remarked, 
but  there  was  a  tacit  passing  over  of  this,  as 
well  as  an  equally  tacit  acquiescence  in  it. 

"  Wounded  and  in  hospital,  I  became,  as 
they  told  me  afterward,  delirious,  and  I  can 
but  believe  that  in  these  moments  I  must 
have  betrayed  the  story  of  my  identity. 
While  still  unable  to  walk,  I  was  conveyed 
to  Dijon,  a  long  distance  for  me  in  my  con- 
dition. 

"  While  there,  I  realized  that  I  was  more 
409 


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closely  watched  than  seemed  necessary,  and 
after  the  receipt,  one  day,  of  a  letter  from  the 
Marshal,  I  felt  instinctively  that  the  espion- 
age was  redoubled.  This  letter  ran  thus : 
'  The  time  is  ripe.  Rest  assured  of  my  de- 
votion and  my  services.  As  soon  as  you 
quit  the  hospital  and  can  walk,  you  may  also 
talk.  France  will  rally  to  you,  and  the 
army,  always  pledged  to  fidelity,  loyalty,  and 
legitimacy,  will  be  yours.'  " 

(It  must  be  remembered  that  McMahon 
had  very  little  to  guide  him  save  military 
honor,  and  that  noblesse  oblige  could  not 
have  entered  into  the  arrangements  of  the 
man,  who  successively  espoused  an  Empire 
and  a  Republic,  after  having  been  born  and 
educated  within  a  Kingdom.) 

"  I  slept  with  that  letter  under  my  palm. 

"  When  I  awoke  it  was  gone.  A  dim  and 
dizzy  night  had  set  in.  Staggering  under 
the  influence  of  some  anodyne  I  was  hurried 
— whither?  I  have  never  known.  The 
mask  was  padlocked  upon  my  head  and  after 
that  I  have  experienced  nothing  but  a  prison 
dungeon,  and  the  implacable  silence  of  those 
who  are  my  jailers.  Once,  my  first  copy  of 
410 


and  Other  People 


this  letter  was  discovered,  for  I  kept  it  al- 
ways near  me,  hoping  against  hope  that  fate 
would  accord  me  the  means  of  communica- 
tion with  the  outer  world.  Immediately  upon 
its  discovery,  without  a  word,  I  was  hurried 
in  the  night  away,  but  only  to  another  dun- 
geon— it  is  this  one.  If  there  is  pity,  justice, 
humanity  in  this  world,  may  it  be  granted  to 
me  to  live  once  more  in  the  daylight  and  to 
abjure  forever  the  claims  that  I  have  to  the 
Imperial  throne  of  France ! 

[Signed]  "  Louis  Francois  Marie  Na- 
poleon Buonaparte." 

When  I  had  finished  reading  this  extraor- 
dinary document,  whether  rightly  or  wrong- 
ly, I  made  a  copy  of  it  in  English,  beheving 
that  the  strangeness  of  the  circumstances 
warranted  my  doing  so.  I  then  placed  the 
original,  with  the  letter  to  Marshal  Mc- 
Mahon  and  the  frayed  envelope,  in  a  fresh 
one,  addressed  the  packet  correctly,  and 
mailed  it  with  my  own  hands  at  the  post- 
office  in  Antwerp. 

The  next  morning,  accompanied  by  my 
father,  who  counselled  the  move,  I  took  a 
cab  and  drove  at  once  to  the  Steen.  The 
411 


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Court  gates  were  closed,  and  only  after  re- 
peated loud  knockings  did  the  young  and 
lusty  Fleming  respond  to  our  calls. 

"  The  Musee  is  closed,  Monsieur  and 
Madame,"  he  said,  abruptly.  "  It  will  not 
be  reopened  for  some  weeks ;  repairs  are  to 
be  made." 

I  had  misgivings ;  I  shuddered  at  the  fate, 
worse  even  than  life  in  the  dungeons  of  the 
Steen,  that  might  be  so  easily  dealt  out  to  a 
prisoner  in  that  horrible  place,  and  yet  at  the 
same  time  I  questioned  what  the  object 
might  be  in  keeping  this  man  immured. 

This  my  father  easily  explained ;  the  Re- 
public, now  on  a  measurably  assured  foun- 
dation, yet  not  stable  enough  to  run  any 
risks,  thought  it  wisest  to  place  such  entire- 
ly out  of  the  question,  and  thus,  what  began 
at  the  instigation  of  the  Empress  was  carried 
on  for  the  welfare  of  the  Republic. 

Nevertheless,  the  Steen  was  all  I  could 
think  of,  and  that  moonlit  night  found  me, 
having  persuaded  my  companion  to  the  un- 
usual jaunt,  down  by  the  borders  of  the 
Scheldt,  gazing  curiously  at  the  frowning 
walls  of  the  stronghold  as  they  rose  from 
412 


and  Other  People 

the  river,  and  then  out  into  the  broad  stream 
where  a  merchant-man,  bound  for  Guiana, 
swerved  at  her  anchor  as  the  smoke  curled 
up  from  her  stacks. 

"  She  must  be  going  to  sail  early  in  the 
morning,"  I  observed. 

"  She  is  going  to  sail  sooner  than  that," 
returned  my  father.  "  They  are  weighing 
anchor  now." 

It  was  as  he  said.  And  even  as  we  were 
chatting  of  the  beauty  of  the  night,  there 
shot  out  into  the  water,  seemingly  from 
under  the  very  foundations  of  the  prison,  a 
boat.  There  were  five  men  in  it — two  to 
row,  two  to  watch,  and  one  who  sat  be- 
tween them  with  his  head  bowed  in  his 
hands. 

I  divined  well  enough  who  the  passenger 
was,  as  in  a  few  moments  the  rowboat 
reached  the  ship's  side  and  the  prisoner  of 
the  Steen  was  put  aboard. 

Two  days  later  I  received  the  card  of  a 
stranger ;  it  read,  M.  le  Capitaine  Georges 
d'Hulaincourt." 

I  went  out  to  see  him,  after  having  sent 
word  that  I  knew  no  such  person,  and  having 
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in  reply  the  assurance  that  the  gentleman's 
mission  was  an  important  one. 

I  have  the  honor,"  said  Captain  d'Hu- 
laincourt,  "  of  returning  to  Mademoiselle,  in 
the  presence  of  Monsieur,  her  father  " — 
bowing  profoundly  as  he  spoke — "  some- 
thing that  belongs  to  her." 

Capitaine  d'Hulaincourt  took  carefully 
from  his  pocket  a  large  official  envelope 
bearing  on  its  corner  the  words  "  Palais  de 
I'Elysee." 

"  Mademoiselle  will  do  me  the  honor  to 
examine  the  contents." 

I  drew  out  the  envelope  which  I  had  ad- 
dressed three  days  previously  to  Marshal 
McMahon. 

It  was  empty. 

"  Mademoiselle  comprehends  ?  " 

I  "  comprehended  "  entirely. 

In  the  face  of  a  military  espionage  as  ex- 
quisitely adjusted  in  France  to-day  as  under 
her  last  Empire  my  effort  in  behalf  of  the 
prisoner  of  the  Steen,  whoever  he  really  was, 
had  been  as  useless  to  him  as  the  sun  which 
shone  where  he  never  could  behold  its 
beams. 

414 


and  Other  People 

Was  his  story  a  true  one? 

I  have  searched  records  and  memories  of 
old  people  for  any  details  of  the  story  of 
Napoleon  III.  in  this  country,  and  while 
there  is  the  faint  reminiscence  of  his  absorp- 
tion in  a  girl  of  great  beauty  who  disap- 
peared mysteriously,  there  is  no  authentic 
connection  between  the  two.  In  pursuing 
studious  inquiries  in  Belgium  and  Holland, 
I  find,  however,  that  there  is  a  tacit  sub  rosa 
acquiescence  in  the  actuality  of  the  Man 
with  the  Iron  Mask  of  to-day,  and,  more- 
over, of  his  Napoleonic  origin. 


415 


THE  CATS-EYE 


THE  CATS-EYE 


FoLA  Bariatinski  was  the  wife  of  a  gen- 
eral of  the  army,  now  absent  from  Moscow 
on  a  campaign  in  the  East. 

She  was  not,  to  speak  strictly,  a  handsome 
woman,  but  she  possessed,  nevertheless,  that 
soft  and  delicious  attractiveness  of  our  Slav 
women  which  renders  them  to  men  irresisti- 
ble. Mme.  Bariatinski,  moreover,  was  thirty 
years  of  age,  and  of  that  mobile,  luxuriant 
and  at  once  intellectual  temperament,  which 
urged  her  to  the  enjoyment  of  herself. 

Conscious  of  her  powers,  aware  of  the 
emotions  she  was  capable  of  awakening,  she 
led,  in  the  absence  of  her  husband,  a  life  not 
devoid  of  its  excitements — if  perchance  at 
the  same  time  she  reserved  within  herself  a 
certain  subtle  essence  of  sanctity,  dedicated 
to  the  worship  of  that  which  to  her  was  life's 
best  and  sweetest  bread. 

Each  day  Mme.  Bariatinski  wrote  a  letter 
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to  her  husband.  Each  day  also  she  received 
visits  from  some  friends,  greeting  them  mer- 
rily with  smiles  and  pleasant  conversation. 
Notable  among  the  guests  of  her  salon  were 
Sergius  Chreptowitch  and  Ladislaus  Her- 
zen. 

Chreptowitch  was  an  artist,  young,  fanci- 
ful, ardent,  and  what  is  called  original — that 
is  to  say,  he  had  the  admirable  gift  of  doing 
things  in  a  way  in  which  the  world  had  had 
time  to  forget  that  they  had  ever  been  done 
before. 

Herzen  was  a  musician — the  older  man  of 
the  two  by  ten  years ;  dreamy,  sad,  quiet,  a 
sorrowful  gentleman  to  whom  the  instinc- 
tive sympathy  of  women  went  out,  hand  in 
hand  with  their  admiration  of  his  liquid  gray 
eyes  and  his  soft,  gold-colored  curls. 

Mme.  Bariatinski  received  her  friends  in- 
formally every  day — or  evening,  rather — as 
I  have  said,  in  a  pair  of  small  rooms  meagre- 
ly furnished.  There  were  splendid  large 
drawing-rooms  used  on  fete  or  gala  occa- 
sions, but  these  little  apartments  were  well 
chosen  for  those  who  gathered  in  them.  The 
floors  were  waxed  wood,  spread  with  fur 
420 


and  Other  People 

rugs,  and  the  furniture  was  all  of  staring 
yellow  satin.  There  were  no  pictures  on  the 
walls,  no  cabinets  of  art,  no  bric-a-brac; 
merely  myriads  of  tall  candles,  portieres  and 
curtains  of  yellow,  mirrors  and  great  ruddy 
fires.  A  bare  stupid  spot  without  the  peo- 
ple; with  them,  complete. 

"  It  is  folly,"  Mme.  Bariatinski  says  to 
Herzen,  who  stands  leaning  above  the  top  of 
her  chair,  to  trim  one^s  rooms  with  a  mil- 
lion little  objects ;  they  are  distracting  and 
they  break.  I  would  much  rather  decorate 
my  salon  with  people  of  beauty  and  genius.'* 

"  They  do  not  break,"  Herzen  says,  softly. 

"  No,"  she  laughs,  looking  up  at  him  ap- 
preciatively. 

"  Only  their  hearts  do — sometimes,  that 
is  all."    His  voice  has  sunk  to  a  whisper. 

"  Hearts,  hearts !  "  echoes  Fola,  fondling 
absently  the  fur  of  the  large,  sedate,  one- 
eyed  cat  who  is  her  familiar  pet.  "  Herzen," 
she  says,  throwing  up  her  pretty  head  auda- 
ciously, as  only  a  woman  with  a  faultless 
throat  would  risk  doing,  "  tell  me,  now,  what 
is  the  heart?" 

"  The  capacity  alike  for  infinite  joy  and 
421 


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for  as  infinite  a  suffering,"  Herzen  replies, 
glancing  away  from  the  lovely  face  that  at 
that  moment  he  would  like  to  take  between 
his  cold  and  trembling  hands,  and  kiss  with 
his  warm  and  quivering  lips. 

"  And  do  you  think,  par  exemple,  Herzen, 
that  I  have  a  heart  ?  "  Mme.  Bariatinski 
preserves  the  upward  pose  of  her  head, 
knowing  very  well  the  thoughts  of  the  man 
who  stands  near  her. 

"  Oh !  "  cries  he,  with  impatience,  "  yes, 
yes." 

Mme.  Bariatinski  laughs  merrily,  and 
Herzen  crosses  to  a  piano,  where  he  plays 
for  some  time  with  great  tenderness. 

And  why  do  you  thus  laugh,  madame  ?  " 
cries  Sergius  Chreptowitch,  entering  the 
salon  and  bowing  low  over  his  hostess's 
hand. 

"  Because  "    Fola  hesitates  and  loses. 

"  I  will  tell  you.  You  laughed  just  now 
because  there  were  tears  salting  your  eyes — 
is  it  not  so  ?  One's  smiles  so  often  veil  one's 
tears." 

**  Well,  granted,  what  then  ?  "  answers 
she,  a  little  defiantly,  her  white  neck  throb- 
422 


and  Other  People 

bing  slightly  beneath  the  weight  of  the  cat's- 
eye  medallion  which  she  always  wears. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you?" 

"  Yes,  you  shall." 

"  Well,  you  thought  of  the  man  you  love. 
When  women  like  you  think  upon  their  holy 
of  holies,  it  is  ever  with  that  pleasure  which 
is  twin  of  pain ;  their  rapture  finds  sound  in 
a  sigh,  and  there  sits  always  at  their  feast 
the  little  serpent  that  stings  the  soul." 

Which  is  ?  "  asks  she,  dreamily,  smooth- 
ing the  long  fur  of  the  cat's  coat. 

"  The  doubt  of  its  own  destiny." 

"  Well,"  she  responds,  in  a  commonplace 
tone,  though  after  a  brief  pause,  you  are 
correct." 

"  Put  away  that  beast,  do ! "  cries  the 
young  man,  his  eyes  following  her  white 
hand's  wanderings  with  jealousy. 

Mme.  Bariatinski  laughs,  drawing  the 
one-eyed  cat  closer  to  her  side. 

"  Sergius,"  she  exclaims,  "  I  wonder 
which  you  hate  the  more,  my  cat,  or,"  touch- 
ing her  bosom,  "  my  cat's-eye  ?  " 

It  was  true  that  not  alone  Chreptowitch, 
but  Herzen  as  well,  held  in  great  abhorrence 
423 


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the  cat,  and  the  medalHon  that  glimmered 
in  a  melancholy  splendor  about  the  neck  of 
Fola. 

They  both  held  to  the  superstition  that 
some  evil  would  one  day  come  of  the  one- 
eyed  cat,  and  they  as  well  knew  that  the  re- 
verse of  the  medallion  contained  the  portrait 
of  a  man. 

Well,  to  be  sure,  each  occasionally  thought 
it  the  other ;  and,  if  the  truth  is  to  be  told, 
each  at  certain  moments  believed  it  to  be 
himself. 

But  no  one  knew. 

The  jewel  had  been  seen,  shining  for  cen- 
turies in  the  forehead  of  an  idol,  by  genera- 
tions of  Hindoos.  General  Bariatinski  had 
pecured  it  as  a  bridal  present  for  his  wife. 

The  gift  of  a  husband,  it  was  exactly  in 
the  vein  of  this  woman  to  use  it  as  the  cover 
to  the  portrait  of  a  lover — at  least  that  was 
one  of  the  many  remarks  made  of  her  by 
some  of  her  guests  behind  the  yellow  silk 
hangings,  as  they  gratefully  sipped  their  tea 
and  drank  their  wine. 

"  I  hate  neither,"  he  replies,  quickly.  "  I 
fear  the  beast ;  it  as  an  evil  one,  I  tell  you. 
424 


and  Other  People 

It  looks  at  you  sometimes  with  that  malic- 
ious eye  as  if  it  believed  your  jewel  belonged 
to  it.  '  Aha !  some  day/  it  seems  to  me  to 
say,  '  Madame,  I  will  spring ;  I  will  tear  my 
other  eye  from  your  neck  with  my  claws.  I 
will  bite.'  That  is  what  I  hear  it  say,  Mad- 
ame, when  it  purrs  so  softly  beside  you." 

Mme.  Bariatinski  shrinks  away  from  her 
pet,  folding  her  arms  tightly  together.  Then 
she  looks  up  at  Chreptowitch. 

"  Oh,  I  see !  "  cries  she,  catching  the  large 
cat  in  her  embrace.  "  You  are  a  jealous 
man.    Yes,  yes,  I  see." 

Not  of  a  beast,"  Sergius  responds,  with 
contempt.  "  Of  that  jewel,  perhaps.  Fola," 
he  whispers,  bending  before  her,  "  for  whom 
were  those  salt  drops  shining  in  your  eyes 
when  I  entered?  Who  is  the  man  whose 
face  lies  upon  your  white  skin  there  al- 
ways?" He  glances  at  the  cat's-eye.  "Is  it, 
as  they  say,  the  face  of  the  man  you  love?  " 

Mme.  Bariatinski,  with  the  cat  lying  com- 
placently in  her  arms,  nods  her  head  in  a 
matter-of-fact  fashion. 

"  And  he  is  "    Sergius  Chreptowitch 

has  lost  his  head.    Reeling  with  an  internal 
425 


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fever  that  no  conventionahty  has  power  to 
cool ;  maddened  with  the  strength  and  deep- 
ness of  his  own  love  for  this  lady,  he  reck- 
lessly— crunching  some  of  the  folds  of  her 
yellow  gown  in  his  fingers,  while  Herzen 
still  plays  his  sad  airs  at  the  piano,  while  the 
guests  laugh  and  jest  with  considerable  noise 
— asks  his  question. 

"  Who  should  he  be?  "  Fola  speaks  very 
softly,  raising  her  beautiful  large  eyes  to  his 
with  an  expression  of  unutterable,  indescrib- 
able pathos  and  tenderness,  and  at  the  same 
moment  laying  her  hand  with  a  caressing 
motion  upon  the  jewel  on  her  bosom. 

Sergius  Chreptowitch  is  perhaps  not  more 
vain  than  many  men,  and  just  at  this  mo- 
ment his  cup  of  bliss  appears  to  him  over- 
flowing with  the  nectar  that  at  once  quenches 
the  unquenchable  thirst,  and  causes  it  to  cry 
out  for  more  and  more. 

He  catches  wildly  at  her  hand,  but  to  hold 
those  five  small  fingers  for  a  second  of  time. 

Well,  the  cat,  disturbed,  perchance,  from 
its  comfortable  position  by  his  abrupt  move- 
ment, strikes  at  him  with  its  paw,  and  the 
blood  comes  out  in  little  drops  on  his  wrist. 
426 


and  Other  People 

That  one-eyed  devil !  "  he  mutters,  go- 
ing away  out  of  the  room  for  water  and  a 
towel. 

"  Does  it  please  you  ?  "  Herzen  now  in- 
quires, having  quitted  his  piano,  as  it  is  very 
late  in  the  evening,  and  all  the  guests,  save 
himself  and  perchance  some  lingerer  with  a 
patient  purpose  in  an  ante-room,  have  left. 

"  Your  music  is  very  beautiful,  it  always 
is,"  answers  Fola,  soaking  up  with  her 
dainty  handkerchief  the  one  drop  of  Chrep- 
towitch's  blood  which  stains  her  gown. 

"  Beautiful !  "  murmurs  the  musician. 
"  Surely  you  do  not  call  music  merely  beau- 
tiful ?    It  is  one  of  the  divinities." 

"And  the  others  are   ?"  she  asked 

with  languorous  lips. 

"  You — and  you — and  you,"  Herzen  says, 
with  anxious  timidity,  as  his  questioning 
and  adoring  eyes  meet  hers. 

"  Seriously,  Herzen  "    Mme.  Baria- 

tinski  smiles  a  little  to  herself  it  seems. 
"  Your  art,  your  music  is  a  great  deal  for 
you.  Not  simply  an  episode,  but  even  a  reli- 
gion, which  each  day  solaces  and  sustains 
you.    Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

427 


The  New  Yorkers 


"  Aha !  "  cries  he,  emboldened  a  little  by 
their  solitude,  broken  only  by  the  sputtering 
of  the  fire  and  the  tinkle  of  the  clock-bell 
on  the  shelf. 

You  are  my  religion — dare  I  say  it?  " 

Yes,"  she  replies,  calmly,    you  may  say 

it!" 

Herzen  throws  himself  on  the  rug  at  her 
feet,  and,  transported,  lays  his  head  upon  the 
sofa,  beside  where  she  sits. 

"  And  since  I  am  your  creed,  what  be- 
comes of  your  music  ?  " 

"  It  is,"  Herzen  says,  raising  his  head  and 
clasping  it  with  both  his  hands — it  is  the 
sublimated  essence  of  poetry  which  daily  I 
lay  before  your  shrine !  " 

"  No,  no,  Herzen,"  Mme.  Bariatinski 
shakes  her  head.  Music  such  as  you  made 
to-night  sitting  yonder  at  the  piano  is  not 
poetry." 

"  It  is  what,  then?  " 
Prose,  prose.    Oh,  Herzen !  "  cries  she, 
throwing  her  lovely  arms  up  over  her  head 
and  clasping  her  hands  together  tightly  there 
as  she  leans  backward  slightly. 

"  Do  we  speak  in  rhythm  or  rhyme  when 
428 


and  Other  People 


we  strive  to  express  the  best  and  hoHest,  the 
truest  and  tenderest  thoughts  that  we  have? 
No ;  in  prose.  Do  we  break  into  harmonious 
numbers  and  words  that  jingle,  when  we 
pray  to  our  God  to  protect  the  one  who  is 
most  absolutely  dear  to  us?  "  Fola's  voice 
is  tremulous  with  a  passionate  joy  and  grief. 

No,  no;  in  prose,  Herzen  " — laughing  a 
little,  as  she  had  at  the  entrance  of  Chrepto- 
witch — Herzen,  your  music  is  prose,  for  it 
speaks,  too,  of  all  this  and  more — of  that 
which  never  was — and  " 

"  Never  shall  be." 

The  musician  rises  and  stands  before 
her. 

Why  is  it  that  a  woman  like  you,  a  creat- 
ure of  fire  and  snow,  at  once  a  siren  and  a 
vestal,  full  of  intellect,  nerve,  tenderness, 

wastes  her  time  with  such  men  as  "  He 

stops  short. 

"  You  mean  Chreptowitch,"  she  says, 
panting,  with  a  half  coquettish  glance 
through  her  black  eyelashes. 

Herzen  sighs  and  sits  down  near  her. 

Mme.  Bariatinski,  stroking  the  soft  ears 
of  the  cat,  looks  at  her  companion  with  an 
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The  New  Yorkers 


expression  most  puzzling — a  little  derision, 
a  little  pathos,  impatience,  weariness.  What 
else  !  heaven  knows ! 

"  Herzen !  "  exclaimed  she,  "  do  you  not 
know  that  there  are  women  who,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  the  man  who  is  the  whole  world  to 
them,  must  have  love,  devotion,  adoration, 
expression  from  some  one — any  one."  Mme. 
Bariatinski  rises  and  throws  the  cat — ill 
pleased  with  his  transfer — to  the  floor. 

Herzen  buries  his  face  in  his  palms. 
And  yet  I  have  seen  you  look  into  his 

eyes  with  the  same  expression  that   " 

He  falters. 

*'  Well  ?  Fola  leans  her  shoulder  against 
the  shelf  and  touches  the  cat  with  the  tip  of 
her  slipper  as  she  speaks.  "  The  same  ex- 
pression that  you  have  beheld  in  them  when 
looking  at  you,  eh  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes !  "  he  staggers  toward  her. 
Herzen,  you  are  very  clever,  but  you  are 
like  Chreptowitch ;  to  you  I  am  a  sphinx — by 
the  way,  he  is  going  to  paint  me  as  one." 

"  No  ?  "  with  inquiring  anxiety. 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  very  well." 

430 


and  Other  People 


"  Do  you  not  know  that  there  are  women 
who  must  lavish  their  glances,  their  smiles, 
their  caprices — no  more  than  these — on 
some  one,  any  one!  In  the  absence  of  the 
idol  one  still  bows  the  knee.  Oh,  Herzen," 
she  cries,  with  almost  a  sob  in  her  voice,  "  I 
am  such  a  woman !  " 

"  Fola,  for  the  love  of  heaven,  tell  me  if  it 
is  possible  for  you  to  love  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  truly,"  she  replies,  quietly,  "  it 
is  indeed  possible." 

They  say,"  murmurs  he,  spreading  his 
chilly  fingers  before  the  warmth  of  the  fire, 
and  looking  up  at  her  very  piteously,  that 
under  your  jewel  there,  your  cat's-eye,  is  the 
portrait  of  the  man  you  love." 

'*It  is  the  truth,"  she  says,  laying  her  hand 
over  her  treasure. 

Ah."  Herzen  touches  with  one  timid 
finger  the  little  slipper  with  which  the  cat 
is  amusing  himself — even  caressingly  allows 
himself  to  smoothe  the  silken  stocking. 
"  Fola,  who  is  he?" 

"  Who  should  he  be  ?  "  Mme.  Bariatinski 
makes  answer,  looking  down  with  an  expres- 
sion of  indescribable  tenderness  and  emotion 
431 


The  New  Yorkers 


into  the  face  of  the  man  who  kneels  before 
her. 

Chreptowitch  has  waited  quite  long 
enough,  he  thinks,  in  the  ante-room,  toying 
with  books  and  photographs. 

He  comes  in. 

"  You  want  me  to  give  you  a  sitting  to- 
morrow, do  you  not  ?  "  Fola  says,  without 
moving  or  turning  her  head. 
If  you  will  be  so  gracious." 

"  And,  Herzen,  you  will  come  and  play  for 
me — sitting  is  so  tedious — will  you  not?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  am  but  too  glad.  At  what 
hour?  " 

Well,  let  us  say  in  the  afternoon.'* 

"  So  be  it,"  the  artist  answers. 

Mme.  Bariatinski  picks  up  the  cat,  and 
makes  a  slight  movement  away  from  the 
fireplace. 

It  is  the  signal  of  dismissal,  w^hich  each  is 
reluctant  to  obey,  but  happier  for  being 
obliged  to  submit  to  it  together. 

Yes ;  it  was    to-morrow  afternoon." 

Fola,  in  the  long  blue  gown  that  she  was 
to  sit  in,  stood  in  her  boudoir;  she  listened 
to  a  footstep  on  the  staircase  very  intently, 
432 


and  Other  People 

her  hand  to  her  ear.  The  one-eyed  cat  was 
cleaning  his  paws  after  emptying  a  bowl  of 
milk. 

Hurry,  Zaca,  hurry.  Why  do  you  lag 
so  !  "  cries  Mme.  Bariatinski  to  the  maid  ser- 
vant, who  now,  panting,  enters  the  room, 
bearing  a  packet  of  letters  on  a  tray  of 
bronze. 

There  is  also  this  dispatch,  madame," 
the  girl  says,  giving  it  to  her  mistress. 
"  A  dispatch  !  " 

Mme.  Bariatinski  rushes  to  the  window, 
the  better  to  read  the  slip  of  paper  that  flut- 
ters in  her  grasp. 

It  is  not  long — a  line  and  a  half. 

A  sound  escapes  her — half  a  sigh,  half  a 
sob,  a  terrible  sound  of  human  woe — and 
uttering  it,  she  falls  with  a  dull  thud  to  the 
floor. 

The  maid  servant  shrieks,  thus  calling  to 
her  aid  a  half  dozen  more,  who  scream  and 
wring  their  hands,  running  about,  pulling 
bell-ropes,  then  rushing  all  of  them  down 
the  staircase. 

At  the  bottom  they  meet  Chreptowitch 
and  Herzen  entering  the  house. 

433 


The  New  Yorkers 


They  inquire. 

Incoherently  the  servants  tell  their  tale, 
forgetting  that  above,  and  still  unattended 
to,  lies  the  beloved  mistress  whose  virtues 
they  are  occupied  in  loudly  extolling. 

Chreptowitch  dashes  up  the  stairs,  Herzen 
follows  him,  and  then  the  servants. 

From  the  glare  of  the  candles  and  lamps 
of  the  entrance-hall,  they  pass  bewildered, 
into  the  gloom  of  Fola's  boudoir.  The  in- 
terminable twilight  of  the  Russian  winter 
has  set  in,  and  through  its  gloom  all  they  can 
see  at  first  is  the  glow  and  fire  of  two  cat's- 
eyes  very  near  to  each  other  over  by  the  win- 
dow. 

Chreptowitch  bounds  across  the  room ; 
Herzen  staggers  after  him,  while  the  stew- 
ard at  last  brings  light  to  the  scene. 

Yes,  the  one-eyed  cat  sat  curled  close  to 
Fola's  white  throat,  sucking  her  breath  with 
pleasure ;  and  across  her  neck  were  the  sharp 
scratches  of  his  claws  where  he  had  tried 
vainly  to  pull  away  her  jewel. 

Chreptowitch  kicked  the  cat  out  of  the 
room,  swearing  at  its  unearthly  shrieks. 

Herzen  took  Fola's  head  upon  his  knees, 
434 


and  Other  People 


and  presently,  when  Chreptowitch  returned 
and  knelt  down  there  beside  her,  they  both 
looked  at  each  other  in  a  stupid  way,  and 
laid  her  upon  the  sofa. 

Mme.  Bariatinski  was  dead. 

They  walked  silently  to  the  door  of  the 
room,  and  there  they,  as  if  by  a  common  im- 
pulse, turned  again  and  looked  in.  The 
cat's-eye  shone  in  splendor  on  her  neck. 

Well — each  person  has  his  way. 

Herzen,  for  once  seemed  not  timid ;  was 
content  to  take  the  lead.  He  went  to  her, 
and  stooping,  turned  over  with  cold  fingers 
the  glimmering  jewel. 

Very  quietly  Ladislaus  Herzen  laid  it  back 
again  as  it  had  been,  and  went  downstairs 
and  out  of  the  house. 

Chreptowitch  picked  it  up  eagerly  with  a 
warm  hand.  He  gazed  at  the  other  side ; 
he  wrenched  it  from  the  chain  and,  with 
an  oath,  flung  it  against  the  opposite 
wall. 

The  one-eyed  cat  had  crawled  back  into 
his  mistress's  room;  he  pounced  upon  the 
medallion,  and  playing  with  it,  purred  with 
satisfaction  and  good-humor. 

435 


The  New  Yorkers 

The  portrait  was  that  of  Mme.  Bariatin- 
ski's  husband. 

The  dispatch  had  announced  his  death  on 
the  field  of  battle  the  day  previous. 


436 


Two  Summer  Girls  and  I 


By  Theodore  Burt  Sayre,  author  of  the  plays 
"Charles  O'Malley"  and  Two  Rogues 
and  a  Romance."  With  five  flill-page  illus- 
trations by  Frederic  Thornburgh.  i6mo, 
cloth,  $1.25. 

**The  reader  will  find  it  hardly  possible  to  help  yielding 
himself  to  the  volatile  and  cheerful  spirit.  .  .  .  One 
remarks  here  if  not  the  influence  at  least  the  smartness  of 
'Dodo.'  .  .  .  These  people  are  modern  and  alive.  Every- 
body knows  them,  and  everybody  who  has  trouble  wishes  he 
could  be  as  cheerful." — Neiv  York  Sun. 

**  A  pretty  little  volume  telling  a  pretty  love-story  of  the 
seaside.  It  is  gay,  humorous,  witty,  brimming  over  with  the 
sunny  spirit  of  Summer  idling  by  the  sea,  abounding  in  light 
glancing  raillery,  'chaff,'  and  persiflage,"  —  Chicago  Chronicle. 

"  A  lively  story  told  in  a  sort  of  monologue  style.  The 
hero,  the  ♦  I '  of  the  title,  had  a  good  time,  a  statement 
which  the  reader  can  verify  by  imitating  the  *  I's  '  experience, 
or  easier,  by  reading  this  entertaining  book." — Boston  Globe. 

Not  every  day  does  one  stumble  on  a  book  so  scintillating 
with  spontaneous  jollity  and  with  repartee.  The  most  serious- 
minded  reader  will  unbend  over  it  and  laugh  healthily  and 
heartily  in  sympathy  with  the  tricks,  pranks,  conceits,  and 
even  contretemps  of  the  frisky  young  fellows  caught  in  the 
meshes  of  *  Summer-girl '  charms  and  kept  at  bay  by  their 
playful  but  independent  sauciness." — Home  Journal^  N.  Y. 


Sold  by  all  Booksellers.    Sent,  postpaid,  by 

GODFREY  A.  S.  WIENERS 


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